Video Love
by FlamingRavenclaw
Summary: "What do you do when loving someone is the worst possible thing you can do, but not loving them hurts you so much you can't breathe?" A Poofless/Wooffrags Novella. Warnings: vulgar language and humor, drugs/alcohol, mental illness, self harm/suicide, graphic violence, smut/kink, maybe tears. Warnings are subject to change. 560 pages.
1. Chapter 1

**December 9, 2010 at 8 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I fold the towel in half and throw it on the counter before jogging through the living room and up the stairs to my bedroom. I'm fifteen minutes late to the recording session and I'm praying that Mitch hasn't left or started something without me. We've had this time planned for over a week now, but parents don't really understand what it means to be a YouTuber, do they? Keeley wouldn't cover me and take care of the dishes for _one night_ so I could get done on time and make it to the Skype call. I quietly close and lock my door so no one'll burst in during my recording and start that stupid "Pressy loves his mommy" meme going around again. I plug my headphones in and move my mouse to clear the screen saver before sliding into my chair and opening Skype. As expected, Mitch called four times before giving up. But he's still online!

Why don't they understand how important this is? I glance over to my other monitor to see my eyebrows scrunched in frustration as I open Minecraft and my recording software. Everyone seems to think I just run up here to hide in my room to play games with my friends (which is true), but they don't get how important some of these games are. Mitch has well over a million subscribers on his channel, and me recording a video or two or three with him can be the greatest thing that ever happened to my channel. If I could hit a hundred thousand subscribers by the end of the month, I'd be golden. I'd be well on my way to becoming a professional YouTuber. I could coast the rest of the way through high school and come out on the other side with the most lucrative dream job ever.

To me, Mitch's a good friend, but he can also be the saving grace of the last of my childhood dreams. I now know that I'll never be president, I'll never be some kind of military dictator that'd rule the world and tell everyone to walk around with their shirts on backwards because it was Tuesday, for gosh sakes! I'll never be a professional wrestler (I'm too short and fat for that) and I'll never get to spend my life traveling the world because everyone knows you need money to do that and the whole thing would just never work. But I can still play video games for a living and make other people smile, and I'm gonna do everything I can to make this dream come true, even if it means having to pay Keeley to do the freaking dishes next time.

"Please pick up, dude," I mutter to myself as I push the video call button on Mitch's profile page. The tension rises more and more with each unanswered ring, and I nervously fiddle with the microphone on my headset, praying he won't just ignore me now that I've kept him waiting for almost twenty minutes.

"Glad you finally decided to join us, Purrston. Where ya been, dood?" I give a soft sigh of relief and see the stress melt away on my face on the second monitor.

"The fam needed me, man. I couldn't just leave 'em hanging! Thanks for waiting." I glance over to my other screen to check the settings on my recording software and hit the record button, knowing I'll have at least a little bit of editing ahead of me later before this video can be posted. I move Skype over to the other screen and switch over to Minecraft, preparing to enter whatever server IP we're joining this time.

"Hey, don't worry 'bout it. We knew you'd show up eventually." 'We'? What?

"Besides, I knew you couldn't resist hanging out… with this sexy beast." He leans forward in his chair, trying to look like The Most Interesting Man in the World and failing so epicly. I roll my eyes so Mitch can see. I know he isn't really a self-absorbed a-hole but he can sure come off that way sometimes.

"Yes, Mitch, everyone knows what a handsome man you are. What are we gonna record? Parkour? PVP? A puzzle map?"

"Parkour, dood. I have a noob to humiliate," he snickers sarcastically as he looks into the camera like he's daring me to say something.

"You're…!"

"Oh, so _I'm_ the noob, Mr. 720-No-Hope? If there was an Olympic medal for lava diving, you would have the diamond medal." This third voice is so unexpected that I jump about a foot in my chair. When did he join the call? Who is he? And more importantly, how had I not noticed him before? Was he here before I got online?

"At least I spend more time on the platforms than off of them." Mitch raises his eyebrow, making his characteristic "Benja Bitchface." I can't help but laugh, to Mitch's approval.

"At least I don't whine like a five-year-old when someone pwns me in Minecraft PVP."

"Touché, Mr. Wageless."

"That's 'Woofless' to you, Mister."

"That's what I said. Get a job."

"You… That was low, man. You know I try."

What is even going on here? Who is this guy? I glance over at my Skype again and I don't see a video feed from him. Whoever he is, he's only using audio. But why? Is this guy some really famous YouTuber Mitch knows and he's only going to reveal himself after we start recording or something? Is this some kind of prank where they're trying to get a reaction out of me when they show who it is? What's going on here? This's so weird.

"You okay there, Purrston? You look a little… faint," Mitch cackles with that greasy little smirk of his plastered on his face. "You still wanna record?"

"Of course I do! I just don't know what you two are talking about."

"Oh, my mistake. Preston Plebface, meet the one-and-only Mr. Worthless-"

" 'Woofless!' "

"I mean Mr. Workless, AKA Rob-who-doesn't-have-a-job. I'm sure you're both pleased to meet each other's acquaintances and you've been waiting all your lives to meet each other."

"Please Benja, I fan," the Rob guy squeaks using one of the most pathetic voices I've ever heard.

"I thought you said it'd just be us recording tonight, dude," I say, watching his face on the other monitor. He'd promised after we talked off-camera last time that we'd do a couple of videos without anyone else sharing in the glory of playing alongside the one and only BajanCanadian. But here's this guy, this weirdo with his weird voices saying weird things when I'm supposed to be getting my name out there to a bigger audience and growing my channel. I didn't sign up for comedy hour and this ish isn't funny! This guy's probably some loser with like a hundred subscribers who posted a funny comment on one of Mitch's videos and Jerome talked him into letting him do a video or two with him for the lulz. Mitch has enough modesty to look ashamed and he rubs his eyes with his hands as he leans back in his chair. He knows how important this was for me, to me.

"Yeah, yeah I know. And I'm sorry man, both of you. I've been recording nonstop all weekend to get enough footage for the school week and I wrote down recording times for both of you at the same time. I haven't slept more than two hours over the last three days and I screwed up. Like I said, I'm sorry."

"It's not that big of a deal, man. I mean, if it's really a problem I can butt out and catch you another time," Rob interjected, sounding concerned. I wish Mitch would take him up on that offer and tell him to frick off. I've been waiting for this for over a week and he's messing everything up!

"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it. You okay with it, Preston?" Great, now he's putting _me_ in the spotlight, like I'm the one who caused this to happen. I try not to make a face, but my smile comes out a lot more sour than I wanted.

"Nah, don't worry about it, dawg. We'll make it work."

"Great. So what do you two fine gentlemen say to getting this show on the road? I need to get started so I can sleep sometime tonight before I have to appear at school tomorrow." Mitch looks absolutely exhausted but he isn't getting out of it this easily. This sucks. No one's gonna watch this video because it's gonna have this nobody YouTuber in the title. Maybe I can just leave his name out and the viewers can learn about his existence after they click on the video… Sounds like a real peachy keen idea.

"Where are we going?" Rob asks, his voice grating more and more on my nerves every time he speaks. I glance briefly over at my monitor to check my expression: mildly pissed. I need to keep it under control or I'm gonna screw myself over and never get another chance to record with Mitch and his buddies. Just chill, Preston. Everything'll work out in the end. Don't worry about it. You'll still get Mitch in the video like you promised the viewers, and you'll get to record with him and Jerome and the other guys again. Just chill.

"I copied the IP in chat. I'm heading over to Hub 4 when you noobs get on. Hopefully there aren't too many lovely people on right now so we can actually see where we're jumping." Wish I had that problem, Mitch. I see him turn to examine his second monitor and smirk.

"I see you haven't fixed your webcam yet, Robert. Can't even have one job…"

"Hey, man, you know how hard it is to get a job right now. Besides, I just moved and my apartment is a fucking disaster. You wouldn't want to see it, trust me." This guy better not swear during the recording or I swear…

"But I miss your lovely face, MrWoofless."

"D'awww… Really?"

"Heh, no." Mitch cracked his first real smile of the night, and I can't help but grin, too. I don't even know this guy but watching Mitch be a jerk to him is hilarious, even if it's just banter.

"W-why do you have to go and play with my heart, baby? I thought we had something!"

"Who do you think you are? Jerome?"

You wish, loser. The server loads up and I sprint over to the portal for Hub 4, looking for someone else running towards it, too. I don't see anyone. I go inside and meet up with Mitch at the edge of what looks like a mountain, a trail of blue and white blocks moving away from the starting line in an ascending, winding path. Suddenly, something blue flashes next to me and another player sprints over to Mitch, who starts flailing his arms, trying to punch them away. The new player has the most boring skin I've ever seen in Minecraft with the stupidest derp face in existence. What's this guy supposed to be? Some nutcase in a dumb blue t-shirt and Converse All-Stars? His skin just makes it easier for me to not like him. 'Woofless' briefly runs back and forth in front of Mitch before he starts twerking.

"Now, I know what we have will never be Merome status, but… we could have something if you would just try," Rob pleads with his whiny voice, his character bowing pitifully in front of Mitch.

"Heh, no."

"Us Canadians have to stick together, Mitchell. Can't you just… try? Please?"

"Maybe when you get a job." There's silence for a moment and I snicker. Mitch runs forward and punches Rob off the side of the mountain and we look down, watching him punch the air as he falls.

"That's cold, man. Real cold."

"Cold like a Canadian winter, dood. Now get your ass back up here so we can record. You can't start parkouring from the void. This is why you don't have a job."

* * *

 **December 9, 2010 at 10 PM, Quebec City, Quebec: Rob**

'Wow. This guy is a total douchebag.' It's like I'm just a spectator, completely invisible and following behind this random guy kissing Mitch's ass. The only time he acknowledges me at all is when Mitch takes pity on me and tries to include me in their conversation, which shortly returns to whatever he had just been yakking on about. If it was any more obvious that he doesn't want me here, I swear he would get banned for aura hacks. I have absolutely no intention of posting any of this video and I sincerely hope that Mitch deletes his footage because of the tangible awkwardness during the whole thing. With any luck, this Preston guy won't bother to tag me in the video and his twenty-some subscribers won't bother searching for my channel. He is an embarrassment to himself and I want nothing to do with his absolute arrogance. Let's be honest here: I am ashamed for him because he lacks the social grace to be ashamed for himself. I wouldn't mind being around in five years to see him react to some of his early videos, just to watch him turn purple in chagrin. Maybe someone can montage some of this footage to shove down his throat later on.

From his conversation with Mitch, I gather that he is still in high school and that he lives somewhere in the States, probably somewhere posh and pretty with a grand mansion and gold-plated sports cars. If he acted any more spoiled, I would be able to smell him from here. Preston is a relatively new YouTuber with two gaming channels that he is really, really passionate about, and he clearly plans on doing YouTube full-time after he finishes school. I'm happy for him and his overnight rise to fame, but he obviously let his new celebrity status get to his head. I hope for his sake that he becomes a YouTube sensation because, with an attitude like that, he would never be able to get a job in the real world. Hopefully someone will knock some sense into him and he will get a college degree if he doesn't make it on YouTube; he is going to need one hell of a resumé to make anyone see past that massive chip on his shoulder.

'Now that's not fair. You have only known the guy for twenty minutes and you're already roasting him. Although it's more along the lines of running him over with your train of thoughts… Never mind. I have to catch up to these two if I want to have any sort of chance to redeem myself. This is still going up on YouTube with my name on it, even if I will only be in a few seconds of footage every now and then.' I mentally curse Mitch for choosing a parkour map because I know I am humiliating myself right now. Preston finished a while ago because he's some kind of parkour legend, and Mitch is getting close to the end of the map, too. But here I am, limping along like a peg-legged homeless man… Could this actually be any worse? Maybe if I can hit the button on my surge protector under the desk I can end this torture _and_ get Mitch to throw out his footage. It would kill the Wi-Fi and I could evade the blame for my disconnection. It _is_ Quebec, after all. I consider it for a second before I get a sudden streak of momentum luck and steamroll Mitch to the finish line.

"Where did you come from?" He swivels his character's head to look at me before he slips into the void and gets teleported back to the previous checkpoint.

"Just, know you… Canada." Mitch groans softly and retries the last stretch of the map while Preston snorts into his mic. He would be cute if he wasn't such an asshole.

'Dude, he looks like he's about twelve. Off limits in so many ways.' I glance away from the Skype window on my second monitor and I laugh as Mitch rockets back into the void. After watching him grit his teeth and whine a few more times, I spin around to look at the rest of the map in the background. The parkour part has ended but the server's map creator had built a small version of the Alps in the distance, no doubt hollow and halved by a world border to save them some work. 'Wow, Debbie Downer on point today, eh?' I swivel to look back at Mitch and see Preston staring at me, his naked character's big black Creeper eyes staring into my virtual soul. Even though it isn't real and he probably isn't even looking at me, it still looks creepy as fuck. 'I guess that's why they call them 'Creepers,' Einstein.' I turn back to Mitch and snort at my mind's own joke.

"So… Benja? Are you gonna finish the map this year?" Mitch stops moving to stare at Preston briefly before he continues jumping, the saltiness visible even in his skin's unmoving expression.

"Do I look like I'm going to finish it anytime soon?"

"No. I just thought I'd ask." Preston walks to the edge to the cliff and watches Mitch fall into the void again, laughing as his character rotates sideways and dies another horrible death down in the pit. "You know, you should speed it up if you wanna sleep tonight." Mitch's trademark bitchface makes another appearance in Skype and I laugh as I think of all of the edits he would get if he would post facecam videos more often. What a beauty!

"Trust me, I'm trying. This map is just so… UGH!" he rages, smacking his desk with him palms as he respawns. "A couple more tries and I'm ending my own misery. Let's go… easy now…" We watch in anticipation as Mitch inches closer and closer to the finish line, slower than ever before. I shift and wait for him to get closer, his face scrunched up in concentration as he stares unblinking at the screen. He moves closer and closer, and his face breaks into a smartass grin as he gets four blocks from the end. Three, two, one… As he jumps from the last block to the final pressure plate, Preston and I both lunge forward and punch him down into the void. We watch as our little rendition of "The Lion King" plays out before our eyes: Mitch bellowing a dramatic "No!" as his character flies in an arc into the void before pitifully hitting the border and tilting over sideways.

"And they said plebs don't fly," Preston remarks matter-of-factly, his face cracking into the first genuine smile all night.

"Why?! I expected it from Preston but… Rob! How could you do this to me?" Mitch is fake sobbing, punching the air as he stares at us from the last checkpoint.

"I offered you a chance. I offered you love! And you soiled it!"

"I couldn't just-"

"Soiled it!" Mitch cracks a grin and Preston starts cackling in the background.

"I can't-"

"Soiled it!"

"Jerome would-"

"Soiled it, soiled it!" Mitch is having a hard time staying in character and Preston is actually laughing. Who knew that could happen? "Soiled it, soi-!"

"ROB! I couldn't betray Jerome! We're never going to happen, so deal with it!" I gasp and shift, pointing my character's head down to the ground as I slowly walk away from them.

"You… you are a bad man."

"The worst," Mitch clarifies as Preston continues giggling, his face hidden in his hands. It's oddly satisfying to see him lose his composure, even if it's just from a stupid Spongebob reference. "Well, ladies and gentlemen! That was a really awful attempt at Yeti Parkour on the Hypixel server. Check out the server and these guys' channels down below in the description. We hope you all enjoyed, and be sure to smack that like button with your forehead if you wanna see more… really bad parkour runs with MrWorkless and PrestonPlebz. And other than that, we'll catch you doods all later. Take care."

"Bye!"

"See ya!" I hit the stop button on my recording and back it up to my external hard drive before I turn to the Skype monitor. I still doubt I will use it, but it is always better to be safe than sorry.

"You know, your subscribers are going to be searching for us with those names," I say, watching the look of amusement dissipate a bit from Preston's face.

"I'll just link you both in the video description. I still have some time if you guys wanna record something else really quick, and I won't use trolly names. At the end."

"I'm down."

"Sure. What did you have in mind?"

'Why do I do this to myself? Maybe I can actually use the next one.'

* * *

 **December 9, 2010 at 9 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"What the actual…!" I lunge behind the side of the house and crouch, hoping whoever's chasing me will find someone else to torment. I pause for a minute to rest, listening. I don't hear anything and I take a deep breath before peeking around the corner, hoping to find that I've escaped. Instead, the stupidest and most terrifying thing in the world is standing there, waiting for me.

"Hey there, friendo." I wasn't expecting it and I scream, horrified at myself as soon as my mouth opens. I flail pathetically for a couple of seconds before the screen flashes and the respawn button appears, and I can see my assassin already sprinting off after Mitch.

'That face… That freaking derp face! Why'd it have to be him?' The absurdity of Woofless's derp face just makes the whole thing even more embarrassing. I can see it happening in slow motion and I already know my reaction is gonna be the highlight of all three versions of this video. 'It's like getting scared of Barney the freaking purple dinosaur! He's just too freaking adorable! It's so stupid!' I silently rage at myself, my face in my hands as I hear Mitch's laughter turn into shrieks as Rob pursues him to his death. I respawn and run into the forest before the other two can spot me.

"GG, Mitchell. Any last words?" I crouch behind a tree and glance at the death counter, dreading Mitch's final death. This Rob guy has to have aim hacks or something because this is insane. You literally can't run or hide from him: every arrow's spot on and it sucks so much.

"Yeah. You'll never take me alive, sucker!" I watch Mitch leap from the top of the convenience store down the road, his character flashing red on impact before exploding. Now it's just me and the mass murderer and he has one more life than me and full health. If only Mitch and I hadn't gone extra try-hard on each other at the beginning of the game, we'd've been able to take Rob out, no problem. But this guy's crazy with a bow. "Now you're just hunting pleblets."

"I was always hunting pleblets," Rob replies evenly, carefully scaling back down the side of the ugly red building to avoid taking fall damage. He draws his bow as soon as he hits the ground and I feel a new wave of hatred for infinity enchantments as I see it glimmer in his derpy hands. Mitch respawns nearby and enters creative mode, throwing invisibility potions on himself and removing his armor. "Aw, no spooky boobs to be my eyes in the sky?"

"No boobs for you, period," Mitch retorts, his leather chest plate blinking out of existence above Rob.

"But-but what if I win?"

"Ask Preston. He might give you his famous moist bagels."

"I love bagels." My eyebrows shoot up and I know someone somewhere is gonna screenshot this and post it all over the internet. This's gonna be the next meme if I don't do something real quick.

"Now, you see, what kind of love are we talking about here? Are we talking about the give-'em-a-quick-rub kind of love, or spreading-the-cream-cheese kind of love?" This is getting real weird real quick but at least the pressure's off me for a second.

"Oh, we're talking about the creamiest of cheeses. Fresh churned, handmade, and organic." Rob has to be some kind of sadist or something. What do you even say to that?

"O-kay then. We don't need to hear about what you do on the weekends when you don't have a job, Robert." Thank God for Mitch's censorship. This could've ended really badly for me. The internet is such a strange, unforgiving place that I still might never live this down, but it could've been much worse.

"What? What are you talking about? Do you have something against organic cream cheese, Mitchell?" I wish I could see the smarmy look on his face right now after Mitch killed his lame innuendo.

"I ain't got no problem with your cream cheese, Rob. I just don't want to know where you get it from."

"It comes from the grocery store, man. Where did you think it came from? Do you think I AFK cows in the backyard or something?"

"Naw, he thought you were milking those udders, Rob," I chime in, watching Mitch look more and more like a cornered animal every second.

"What? No. No! I buy it at Metro at the deli. I just thought you might want to grab some fresh cream cheese for your late night snack sessions." Rob pauses for a second and Mitch looks like he's waiting for the punchline. "You're sick, man." His delivery is just too deadpan. This is amazing.

"Oh, yeah? You think that was good? Wait until Preston finds out!" Mitch yells, looking too satisfied with himself.

"Until I find out about what?"

"Turn around, Purrston." I freeze and slowly turn around to find those tiny, soulless derp eyes staring me down from less than a block away.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey!"

"Hey!" I'm dead and he knows it. He's just waiting for me to make the first move. If I run, he'll shoot me to death, so I have to stand and fight like a man. I scroll to my sword and get a few good hits in before he has a chance to react, and I watch in satisfaction as his stupid derp face disintegrates in front of me. Mitch and I laugh for what can only be a second before something starts hitting me from behind. "Oh God, you're like Slender!" I sprint behind a tree and spot him standing on the road, that freaking infinity bow shining in his hands.

"Whenever, wherever…"

"Please, no Shakira, Rob."

"O-okay." Even when he's making stupid jokes, his aim is spot-on. I watch in horror as he pings me around the edge of the tree, my hearts evaporating before my eyes. Why'd he have to get the only bow? I'm no pro but at least he wouldn't be able to slaughter Mitch and me like this. I went from half health to two hearts in seconds…

"Looking a little… prickly there, Preston," Mitch cackles as I try to reposition myself behind the tree for better protection from Rob's arrows.

"Of course, dude. I'm a cactus."

"I thought you were a lava mob." There's silence for a second, and I know somewhere out there Rob is slinking over to me to finish off my last two hearts of health.

"You're a pleb." I make a mad dash out of the forest and I'm only a couple blocks away from the store when the barrage starts in again. An arrow flies right past my head and I already know I won't make it.

"A one, a two, a three, ping!" Rob declares as the last arrow smacks me in the back of the head. My screen flashes red and the game's over. Mitch clearly isn't the Katniss he thinks he is. "GG, boys, GG."

"GG indeed."

"Yeah, GG." I can't deny that that was an awesome game, but I'm also pretty miffed that Rob was the only one who got a bow. At least I know where it's hidden on this map for next time.

"Well, that's gonna do it for this round of Angry Villager PVP! Check out these guys' channels and the map linked in the description below. We hope you all enjoyed, and make sure to slap that like button with your forehead for some more epic PVP battles with Preston and MrWoofless. And with that, we'll catch you doods all next time, and goodbye."

"Bye guys!"

"See ya!" I stop my recording and save it to my desktop to edit after we end the call. This was, by far, one of the most valuable and entertaining recording sessions I've had in a while. "Nice classic outro there."

"Yep. Well, that's a wrap, boys. I'm out. I'll message you tomorrow sometime after I get home. Sound good?" Mitch looks like he's about to pass out and I feel kinda bad for making him stay up so late. But a promise is a promise, right?

"Sounds great. Get some sleep, dood," Rob replies, drumming lightly on his desk and spinning his character around like a madman.

"Yeah, take it easy. We'll catch you later." Mitch nods as he yawns and he leaves the Skype call a second before he disappears from the server. Now it's just me and Rob standing here, silent and awkward.

"Good game?" he says, sounding unsure.

"Yeah, good game, man." There's another short pause and I can feel him studying me through my facecam.

"Sorry for interrupting your recording time with Mitch. We were going to do a PVP war with a couple other people, but he wanted to keep his promise with you. I would have left, too, but I won't have any time to work with him until after the holidays and I mentioned recording with him in a couple of my videos."

"Nah, man, it's cool."

"We're cool?"

"We're cool." Maybe this Rob guy isn't that big of a pain after all. I'm definitely stalking his channel tonight while my videos are rendering. I guess being stuck with him for an hour wasn't such a bad thing. "Catch ya later?"

"Yeah, sure. Just hit me up with a DM on YouTube. I'm always around." He sounds like he genuinely means it, and I might take him up on the offer.

"Alright, sounds good. 'Night!"

"Get some sleep. Mitch Time only works for Mitch."

"Trust me, I know. Thanks again." I exit the Skype call and disconnect from the server before reclining in my chair. I can finally relax now that I know no one's analyzing my every move on their computer monitor thousands of miles away or making edits of my facial expressions. It's so peaceful, but it's lonely, too. Who knew you could feel so crowded in a dark bedroom all by yourself?

'What an intense recording session. But it was fun. I had a good time. I never thought I'd say it because I hated his guts an hour ago, but I wouldn't mind doing it again. I wonder who this guy is?' I lean forward and open a browser window to start investigating the mysterious MrWoofless.

* * *

 **Just a Quick Note: If you enjoy this story, please remember to LikeFavSub. Each chapter takes at least five hours to write and edit, and seeing that other people are enjoying it as much as I am motivates me to release new chapters on time. Thank you for giving this monstrosity a chance, and I hope to see you on the other side.**


	2. Chapter 2

**December 10, 2010 at 2 AM, Quebec City, Quebec: Rob**

I am not usually one to complain quite this much, but this hotel Wi-Fi is just downright awful. I am still in awe of the fact that I didn't get pinged to death during the recording session because this… This is a whole new level of hell. When you have to wait fifteen minutes for a YouTube video to finish buffering, you know you are doing something wrong.

"Come on Procyon, you can do it, baby. Just a couple more videos and you can take a well-earned rest while I edit. Okay?" The laptop continues whirring, that irritating little circle of lines still spinning in the middle of the video frame. "Please?" The second-to-last bar on my Wi-Fi indicator disappears and I sigh in defeat. "Fine, fine. We can do it now. You are _such_ a crybaby." I pause the video and minimize it before clicking on my editing software to get started on the footage from earlier, reconnecting my little Asus monitor so I can see both editing windows fullscreen. I had spent the last three hours catching up with my social media accounts, mourning my bank account, and stalking TBNRfrags on YouTube. This last mission had taken significantly longer than I had expected and I still can't really tell you anything new about him. The program finishes loading and I get to work, splicing together bits and pieces from the PVP video and popular memes until I am satisfied. I am a perfectionist and I am not afraid to admit it. If I wouldn't enjoy watching my videos, I won't subject my viewers to them.

'Now, what to do with the other one?' I still have not decided what I am going to do with the ultra-awkward parkour video and I have no inspiration on how to fix it up and make it less painful to watch. 'Was it really that bad?' I shrug and sigh, and I hit the render button for the PVP video and set it to upload on December 17th. Right now, I am leaning toward keeping it just because I am running out of time and ideas for videos to last until the 27th. Family reunions and extended holidays are bad enough, but when they happen at the same time, you go weeks without sleep. I am already getting raked over the coals for missing most of the holidays, but Wednesday the 12th is payday and the best I can do. With only two days left to grind out about twenty videos, my stress level is rising right through the roof. I check to make sure my lovely little computer friend is plugged in to charge and grab my coat, deciding to find some dinner while I wait for the Wi-Fi situation to improve. If nothing else, I could come back and sleep until the coffee shop opens and go do my research on their network.

I check my wallet for my room key card and quietly shut the door behind me, careful to leave the lights on so any potential thieves will think I am still keeping watch over my precious Mac. Even the hallway is cold, and I shiver a little as I walk toward the stairs to go back to the lobby. What a shame we can't just /hub like in Minecraft; it would save everyone so much time. The doorman nods from behind his portable TV and I wave as I head out the door to the nearby diner, grabbing a copy of the morning paper on my way out so I won't look like a complete mental case staring into space at the restaurant. For a split second I wish that one of my friends lived close-by but, then again, that would just cause more unnecessary drama.

'I look like I'm homeless.' I snort as the full meaning sinks in.

'But you are homeless.' I brace myself against the wind and step out of the doorway, spotting the warm little diner just a couple doors down, the only light on an empty, dark street. I can feel the hard snow crunching under my feet, just soft enough to send little ice crystals into my shoes. I take my time making the trip, knowing that no one will be waiting up for me at the hotel room to question where I had been and why I left in the first place. I guess it's for the better, though. I knew Vanessa's jealousy and possessiveness had been a little over-the-top and I honestly don't miss her much, but the way she left and the things she did still burn me to the core. I make a mental note to check my Facebook again to make sure she didn't create another fake account to harass me with. The last thing I need is to have to try to explain some of her accusations to my parents.

'You know they would believe you.' I am not so sure about that. She was always very persuasive, at least to me. I quietly open the door to the diner and walk in, tapping my shoes on the doormat to knock some of the powder loose. A waitress looks over from her romantic comedy behind the counter and grabs her notepad, her eyes lingering a little too long on my hair.

"What can I getcha?"

"Black coffee and scrambled eggs." She nods and scribbles down my order, ringing the bell to call the cook back to the kitchen. I find a booth in the farthest corner and sit down, pulling out my phone and opening the camera app to quickly glance at my face. I look like I have not slept or shaved in a week (and I really haven't) and I have small flakes of snow melting in my messy brown hair. Nothing too surprising, nothing unexpected. I open up Facebook for a minute to see if I have any new mentions or notifications and, to my relief, it looks like Nessa might have finally backed off. It is the best news I have had in months. I open the paper and fish my ballpoint pen out of my coat pocket, skimming the headlines and the weather before I turn to the crossword on the back page, knowing before I start that I will be looking up half of the answers on Google if I decide to finish it. The waitress brings my coffee over with a grim smile and I thank her before she hurries back to her show.

I work half-heartedly on the puzzle while I dream about searching through the apartment listings a few pages back. She had taken everything, _everything_ … Even my bank account is dry. I need to milk my sponsors on YouTube a little more and get my video views up to get a little extra cash before I can even think about leaving the Hotel From Hell with its atrocious Wi-Fi and dilapidated carpet. Even then, I know the smell will linger on in my new apartment for quite a while – it is now embedded in everything I own. I will get a little break when I leave for the holidays but I have to leave my parents' house at some point. My personal little corner of hell, the room at the Archis Inn was the cheapest place I could find short of a cardboard box. Maybe by February I can be out of there and get on with my life, and maybe start using the webcam again to get my views up. I am not ready to start using facecam in my Minecraft videos yet, not when I know the older fans will comment how much better my videos were on the first channel and about how much older I look now. I just can't deal with that load of shit hitting the fan yet. After all, life is really just a giant toilet: when someone decides to flush it, everything goes down the drain at the same time.

'At least I'm not freezing to death in my car without internet.'

'Wow, what a positive thought. You might be only one step ahead of the bear, but at least you aren't getting mauled by it yet.' Let's be honest here – my caustic humor is about all I've got left.

The waitress returns with my food and a pot of coffee before disappearing again, and I am grateful for her silence. I grab the bottle of maple syrup from the next table and smother my eggs in it before turning back to my phone, pulling up YouTube this time. I scroll through the comments on yesterday's videos, smiling a few times at jokes and highlights from the commentary. To me, this is one of the best parts of the job. Knowing that I made someone's day or helped them through a hard time does the same for me, and I know I wouldn't even be in _this_ good of a situation without the support from my fans.

My online life is great: I have amazing friends, an awesome career, tons of opportunities, and just over three hundred thousand subscribers on my Minecraft channel. But as great as all of that is, my offline life is just as shitty. I am living in a shabby hotel room hundreds of kilometers away from family and I can't tell any of my friends I am here. I'm so broke right now that I'm beginning to regret eating breakfast at a restaurant instead of fishing a pack of crackers out of the vending machine down the hall at three in the morning when no one will see me. I have not skipped taking my pills at all during this whole fuck fest, but I don't know if I will have enough money to get my prescription refilled next month when it comes due. I am trying so hard and I keep getting back up, but one person can only fall down so many times. And I can't keep asking other people to help me get back up and put all my shit back together for me. That isn't their job.

'This is why you don't have a job.'

'Spot on, Mitch, spot on.' I could get a job, a "real" job, if I wanted to, but I know that the second I stop putting all of my effort into YouTube my channel will be over. That's how it works, isn't it? Everyone thinks being a YouTuber is all sunshine and glory, that it's easy like Sunday morning and it pays better than a winning lottery ticket. But it's not, it doesn't. It's great, don't get me wrong, but it is by no means easy or lucrative, at least not when you start out and depend on two measly sponsors to put eggs on your table. During my little stint with Machinima before all of that crashed and burned, I was the golden boy. I could take vacations and buy a new computer on a whim with just the cash in my pocket, and I could sleep at night without wondering how many more days I have left before I will be in my car in front of a grocery store, clinging to the blue Snuggy Mom bought me for Hanukkah last year as a joke.

In some ways I am glad that all of the drama with Mike and Nessa is over, and realistically there was no way I would be able to face the guys at Machinima after all that crap went down. I guess for now I will just be content that no one can see how I am living right now and finish churning out videos for the next couple of weeks. Videos feed my channel, fill my bank account, and help me escape from reality. What better drug can there be?

I drain my coffee cup and leave a couple of dollars on the table before I go to the counter to pay the bill. I try not to cringe as I slide my debit card and punch in my PIN, feeling every last cent of that nine dollar meal drain out of my account like blood from my veins. I thank her and let her return to her movie, tossing the newspaper in the trashcan on my way out. I won't have time to finish the puzzle when I get back to my room: I have too much work to do.

* * *

 **December 10, 2010 at 2 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"I swear, if I have to read _Romeo and Juliet_ one more time before I graduate, I'mma slap a itch," I groan, throwing my English textbook into my backpack and slamming my locker shut. I can't even tell you how much I hate the week before winter break. Like, what even are you? You serve no purpose!

"Wouldn't it just be better to scratch it?" Kenny asks, sliding his backpack on and walking backwards away from me.

"Scratch what?"

'The itch?" I glare at him and his stupid grin. "Okay, okay, I'm not funny."

"You're just now figuring that out, you noob?"

"Hey, you're just jealous Hanlon liked my rendition of _Beowulf_ better than yours."

"At least mine didn't sound like a presidential speech."

"You need to project your voice when you speak in a room full of real people. You can't always just sit there and spit into your microphone."

"Yeah, thanks Obama."

"Pfft, whatever dude. I'll catch you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, see ya. Don't forget about trig on Wednesday, got it? I know you're gonna forget again and I can't always be there to save your butt."

"Nah, man, my butt's good. Bye."

"Bye." I dig my keys out of my pocket and head out to the parking lot along with everyone else in the school. I hurry over to my car and jump in, but I don't make it in time to hightail it out of there. A huge line has formed to escape from the lot and here I am, at the back of the line. "Curse you, Kenny."

Since I'm trapped in my parking spot, anyway, I might as well check my texts and e-mails and stuff. Kenny sent me a stupid picture two hours ago, Mom tagged me in something on Facebook, four of my videos finished uploading, two videos were published, eBay wants me to update my info again… Nothing from Mitch.

Maybe he isn't home yet. Montreal is only an hour ahead of me so he might still be at school or something. Since there's no real rush to get home, I can stop by Target and get some batteries and grab something to eat before I try to suffer through Shakespeare Spark Notes and polar coordinates. I nod to myself and take the ugliest selfie in the world and send it to Kenny while I wait for someone to let me out of my spot. It takes a while but I finally find a nice person and speed out onto the main road. Thirty minutes, a pack of batteries, some beef jerky, and a bag of Red Vines later, I'm sitting in my car in front of Five Guys with a burger, reading through comments on my YouTube videos.

"If there was any more spam here I'd swear I lived in Hawaii…" I remove a couple more advertisements for free codes and see that a new emoji war has erupted on the YouTubez. Apparently there's now a poop emoji, and someone has smeared it all through the comment section on two of my videos. "Nice, dude. I see you just couldn't keep it to yourself this time." I laugh at my own joke and continue scrolling, seeing a few map recommendations and one really badly spelled hate comment. I reply to her and a few of the less offensive comments before moving on to Mitch's channel. He hasn't posted either of the videos from last night yet but I hadn't really expected him to.

"Not big surprise." I pull up Rob's channel to see if he posted our videos, but he hasn't uploaded anything today. I hadn't actually had a chance to check him out last night because Dad had started pounding on my door in the middle of my editing, before I'd had a chance to watch any of his videos. After an initial Google search I'd learned that his name is Robert Latsky and that he lives somewhere in Quebec, Canada, but that's about it, other than the obvious fact that he makes videos. Unlike some of the other YouTubers I've met, Rob's pretty secretive about his private life. My quest had ended at his channel Facebook page, where the only pictures tagged to the account were either fan art of his Minecraft skin or group photos of other YouTubers, most of the captions saying they wished he could've been there or joking that he wasn't invited. It sounds weird to be so interested in what someone looks like, but when you work in a community that's so focused on visibility and being relatable, it's surprising to find someone with a lot of subscribers who hasn't really put themselves out there. And Rob has quite a few subscribers – even more than me.

Mitch said something about Rob's webcam breaking so he must've used it at some point. I wonder if he recorded with it? I search for "Woofless facecam," "Woofless cam," and "Woofless face reveal" to no avail. I settle for watching a couple of his newest videos with other Minecrafters I know, and a video with Jerome and Rob singing the song from the old He-Man meme makes me choke on my food. In the course of my life on the internet, I've seen a lot of trolls, but those two are two of the biggest trolls I've ever seen. Gamers like them make videos less about the video game and more about the commentary, which makes the whole thing ten times better and makes you want to keep watching even after the games have gotten dull. This is the kind of stuff memes are made of and there's no way I can come up with this kind of gold by myself. I need to start recording with other people more often and people like Mitch, Jerome, and Rob are exactly the kind of people I need to make that happen. Plus they take a lot of the boredom and self-consciousness out of making videos. I need these people in my life.

I close the window on my phone and consider messaging Rob while I finish my burger. Would it be too soon if I just met him yesterday? I mean, I don't wanna look desperate but I don't wanna blow him off, either. What's the etiquette for this kind of thing, anyway? Should I wait until he publishes the videos we recorded or do I just go for it? Maybe I should wait for Mitch to message us then try to talk to him? I decide to go with this plan and to spend the extra time trying to learn more about this guy. Does he usually do collabs or is it just an occasional thing? What if he doesn't record Minecraft a lot and he just wanted to record with Mitch a couple times? Mitch is in both of his videos that I've seen and in the ones we recorded last night. Would he even want to record with me again if Mitch isn't in the video, too? Does he even do one-on-one recordings or does he just like doing group recordings with a bunch of people? Would anyone else want to record with us? Does he like parkour and PVP maps or does he just do those because Mitch picks them and Mitch is Mitch?

For gosh sakes, you're not marrying the guy! Just message him and ask him to Skype or something. It isn't that big of a freaking deal. But there's still the problem of whether or not he would actually acknowledge me if I did message him. When he said I could DM him, did he actually mean it or was he just trying to get away from the awkwardness? There aren't that many YouTubers who are willing to record with people with smaller channels and… I guess I could've been nicer to him yesterday. I was just really disappointed that my eagerly awaited plans had been ruined at the last minute by some guy I'd never even heard of. Things would've gone much better if Mitch'd let me know ahead of time that there was gonna be someone else in the recording so I could look him up real quick and see who I was dealing with. This sucks. The anticipation is already killing me and I haven't messaged him yet. Why can't this whole thing be easy like it is for Pewdiepie or Sky or Mitch or the other big people? I sigh and crumple up the wrapper from my burger and stash it in the cup holder next to my pop.

"Guess I better get going. Math doesn't do itself." I can't help but chuckle at that. I crack myself up sometimes.

* * *

 **December 10, 2010 at 6 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

 _'_ _great banter last night dood. up for another round on friday?'_ I pounce on the keyboard so fast my math paper flies off the desk, but I don't care. This week just might be the best week my channel has ever seen. Like I'd turn down an opportunity to record with BajanCanadian!

 _'_ _sounds good, time?'_

 _'_ _same time, same place. is that good for you?'_

 _'_ _ofc, see you there!'_ Should I ask about Rob? Or would that be too weird?

"I'll just ask him to record again this week and if it matches up, it matches up. Don't wanna be inviting people without Mitch's permission." I nod and decide to finish suffering through my homework before I try contacting Rob. I could use a little more time to do detective work on him, anyway. "Just fourteen more problems to go, then I can pretend to have a life. Heh."

I breeze through the problems like a tornado, but the stress from doing homework quickly turns into stress over talking to Rob. I really don't know much about this guy or his channel, except that he lives in Canada and we know a lot of the same Minecraft YouTubers. I don't know anything about his career goals or his reputation, and that scares me. Any strikes I get against me now will not only lose me subscribers, but they'll also be thrown in my face longer and harder than they would if I was a bigger YouTuber. You don't see as many people going off on Mitch for accidentally cussing or saying something offensive as you do people like OmniMC, but when they do, there're even more people defending them.

Everything will be so much better when this isn't so stressful and when everything comes together. If I could get a million subscribers I would be set for life. After that, the channel grows itself and I just have to prod it along a little bit instead of spoon-feeding it every three seconds. I wonder how Rob got so many viewers… Mitch did Hunger Games with Jerome tagging along and they roped a couple other people along for the ride, but I'd never heard of Rob before yesterday. He hasn't done that many collabs with bigger YouTubers (at least that I know of) but he has three times as many subscribers as me.

And I went ham as soon as I hit ten thousand when people would talk to me. What's up with this guy? I slam my math book shut and jam it into my backpack with my paper still wedged between the pages. This is what intrigues me the most about MrWoofless. Where did he even come from? I return to the Google tab I'd left open last night, but the only page that seemed to have any further information was a Wiki page.

"And we all know how reliable those are." I remember browsing through mine one time and seeing Keeley's name listed as 'Kelsey,' and it'd only recently been updated to 'Kiley.' I search his name one last time, but the fan-made Wiki page I found last night is the only thing that pops up and it has more information about some other guy he used to record with than about him. But he knows how to speak some French.

"Okay, that's it!" I close the window and push my chair back from the desk in frustration. Two hours. I've spent _two hours_ of my life stalking this guy online and I can't tell you anything important or interesting about him. He has to be doing this intentionally. It feels like he's hiding something but I have no clue what it could be. It's really unnerving to rely on someone you don't know anything about to market your channel. "Now the real question is: can I trust this guy?" I haven't found anything negative about him – or positive. There's just nothing. And he's in character in all of the videos on his channel, which doesn't give you any idea about who he actually is.

You're driving yourself crazy over this. Just message the guy and see what happens. Maybe you can talk to him for a little bit before you record and you can learn about him from him. There's no point in putting it off any longer. I roll back over to the computer and pull up his YouTube channel. Clicking the message icon on his channel page felt like opening that mystery report card you get right before summer where you don't really know what it says and it just might get you grounded for four months. Just chill out. It's just a DM, for gosh sakes!

 _'_ _Hey, it's Preston from the recording yesterday. Are you still up to record again? Hit me up with some times so we can work it out. Thanks!'_ I send the message at 7:14 and I sit there and wait. And wait. And wait. At about 7:30 Mom group texts us that Dad'll be bringing take-out home and that she's going to be a few minutes late. I glare at my monitor for a couple more seconds and decide it'd be in my best interest to just go downstairs. Mom's guilt trip mind game is the worst game in the world.

* * *

 **December 10, 2010 at 11 PM, Quebec City, Quebec: Rob**

The battery is dying and the beep scares the absolute holy shit out of me. I jolt awake at the table and stare stupidly at the computer for a second before panicking and grabbing my phone. Luckily I had only lost about four hours to sleep. The wave of relief immediately mixes with stress before it comes crashing down on my head. How can my life be so dull but still feel like a roller coaster?

"How is it going there, babe? Are you done yet?" The laptop keeps on whirring, and I feel like it would be rolling its eyes at me if it were alive, saying 'Of course not.' It beeps again and I plug it in before it can threaten to shut itself down in protest. I swipe the touchpad and see that seven of the nine videos have finished rendering and that today's videos have finally been posted. "I guess YouTube got over its tantrum. Are you still mad at me, too?" Procyon keeps working, oblivious to my question. "Fine, then. See if I defrag your drives on Saturday."

'Are you flirting with a laptop? Has it really come to this?' I can't tell if it's more funny or pathetic, but this gorgeous, glowing silver beast has become my new best friend. I can feel my desktop computer glaring daggers at me from the corner, but I have no physical internet connection here I can use to titillate my primary PC, my other true love. I gently wipe away the dust that has collected on Procyon's screen and check to see how much longer the last two videos will take. 'That is at _least_ forty-five minutes. That means I have at least forty-five minutes to kill before I can call it a night.'

After spending eleven hours grinding through a new modded "Let's Play" to air over my fifteen day absence, I can see Minecraft blocks when I close my eyes. It haunts my dreams, too, and I spend all of my life mining through cave systems and killing Creepers, whether I am awake or not. I love it and I am grateful for it but… Thank God for the holiday season. I really, really need a break. I switch back over to the game and check my supply grinders. When four hours only gets you a fraction of the materials you need, you know you are using creative mode. I spawn in a couple extra stacks of cow hide and white wool and rearrange the chests to make it seem like the droppers placed them there. There is only so much I can do before I'm running on Mitch Time – and Mitch Time only works for Mitch.

'At least the cactus grinder works.' The chest is almost halfway filled with cacti, which is ten times more than I need. 'It looks like our base is going to be green... Maybe we can do a flower theme?' I can't help but grin at the inevitable comment war that is going to ensue on this video, just like it has on so many others. It will be all-encompassing: girls, boys, fans, haters, body parts, name-calling, love, hate, religion, philosophy, trivia, thumbs-up wars, emojis, spam, pixel art… Some of these people don't even bother watching the videos anymore. Regardless of their conclusion (if they can even reach one this time), I can rest assured that the whole thing will be absolutely hilarious. 'The best part is that not one of them knows the answer, either. They are all fighting over something none of them can prove because it only exists in my head where only I know and control the truth.' The internet is such a strange and fascinating place. Where else can you find hundreds of people squabbling over some guy's sexual orientation without him ever actually talking about it? 'It feels like I'm back in a really bad classic literature class.'

I tab back over to YouTube and watch the little green bar creep slowly to the end goal, but it is just too depressing to watch. I grab my phone and check my Facebook accounts and my e-mail, and there I find the most interesting thing I have seen all day: a PM from PrestonPlayz. Mitch had messaged me earlier on Skype to apologize for yesterday's recording session and asked if it was alright for him to use the videos on his channel. I think that Preston and I might be cool now, but this was a whole new level of unexpected. Now he wants to be friends and record together?

'This guy goes zero to a hundred real fucking quick. He was glaring at my Minecraft character yesterday like it would give him an insta-kill. What is going on here?' My paranoia might be setting in a bit here but people don't usually do a complete one-eighty like this overnight. This is unsettling. 'Is he screwing with me?' I open a new tab on my laptop and pull up his channel to see if he posted yesterday's videos. I watch both of them all the way through and read through the descriptions and comments, but I don't find any derisive jokes or suspicious edits that might indicate ulterior motives.

'Could he really just want to record with me?'

"What do you want, man?" Procyon keeps humming right along like I am not even there. I consider all possible sides of the conundrum and I can't see any signs of him trying to screw me over. Even if he tries, what is the worst thing he can do? He has no way of knowing my address or phone number, I have no massive skeletons in the closet he can use against me, and he has no financial control over me. The worst he can do is spread a rumor about me or make a hurtful video, but I don't really care about that. My fans will do more to him than I could, anyway. In this game of YouTube war, I control the nuke. I click on the reply button and tell him I am available tomorrow afternoon to record and I ask if we can record games on Hypixel so I can unlock more kits. This way, I can scope him out without giving him direct access to my computer or my location. "Check and mate, bub."


	3. Chapter 3

**December 11, 2010 at 6 PM, Quebec City, Quebec: Rob**

My Skype rings the instant it hits 5:00 PM his time and I can't help but wonder how long he has been sitting there, waiting. I answer on the third ring after I minimize my editing software, noting that he has opted for a voice-only call. A smart move, but this will make it more difficult for me to determine what it is he wants. What you say, what you think, and what you do are often three very different things, and something about TBNRfrags just irks me. I'm not sure what it is – it might even be nothing – but he seems too goal-oriented and duplicitous to be trustworthy. I am now playing a game of chess against a virtually unknown and invisible enemy, and so far his strategy is absolutely bizarre.

'People call _me_ a try-hard. This guy is the new meta. He probably just sat at his desk for the last half hour watching to see if I would log on.' My account status is permanently hidden, and I will admit I had some fun picturing him panicking over me never logging on. Just like in real life, I prefer to lurk.

"Hey. When did you get here?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused. Am I giving this guy too much credit with my mental AI? Could he really have insidious plans when he doesn't even know how to change the settings on Skype? Maybe I play too many strategy games and it's starting to catch up to me. Could this be a scheme within itself, or am I overthinking the whole thing and he's just some high school kid?

"I never really log out. I have been doing some massive editing over the last two days and I just leave everything running while the videos render. Why, when did you get here?" Preston pauses and is not as quick to respond; he has obviously been waiting around for a while and he even sounds a little disappointed.

"I just got on about five minutes ago. Went and checked my channels and Twitter and stuff." He pauses for a second and I can hear him typing. "What'd you wanna do on Hypixel?"

"They just updated their party games server. It's still in beta but Jerome said it's a good way to grind out levels for ranks. I'm still rocking the basic class and I need to get a move on before they re-release Battledome or I'll be RIP."

"Sounds good. I haven't played on there in forever. I think Jerome roped both of us into that."

"That's the Bacca for you." I exit my private server on Minecraft and join the Hypixel hub, spending a good thirty seconds skimming through the tab menu to find the mini game I was talking about. Meanwhile, the Skype call goes dead silent. This is already looking like a terrible idea.

"I don't see it in the main menu. Do they have a physical hub door for it or…?"

"Maybe. Let's go find out. I am over by Survival Games if you want to check out your side."

"Yeah, will do. What's it called?"

"Not a clue. Probably just 'Party Games' or something." Preston gives a loud snort in my ear and I can't help but smile. Maybe he turns into a real person when he isn't recording with Mitch?

"You mean 'Bacca Games'?"

"Yeah! He's probably on here all the time. I bet he has the highest score on all of the games."

"He's probably the only returning player who knows how to play actual Minecraft. That's why it's the only thing he's good at – he's surrounded by noobs on here."

"Don't let him hear you say that. He will send you a collection of creepy ass pictures of his nose on every account you have ever had. I'm still finding them six months later. It's like a plague from Easter Island." What was Preston's idea of revenge if someone pissed him off?

"I've gotta see that."

"The nose griefing?"

"Yeah! I'll make a collage for him and put it as my Twitter header or something. It'd be awesome."

"It's going to end up as a fan fiction. I'm just warning you."

"The ship has sailed, my friend, the ship has sailed." I can already picture fan art and picture edits of Preston sucking on Jerome's nose plastered all over everyone's social media accounts, and I have to admit it would be hysterical. "By the way, I found the lobby if you just wanna TP to me."

"Roger that. I just found a sign saying that they are adding something called UHC this summer. Do you have any idea what that is?" I ask absentmindedly, trying to think of the command to join him. I have been staring at this screen so much over the past week that I can barely remember how to do anything but walk around and click. I know what 'UHC' stands for, but my own name and my common sense have both evaporated from screen fatigue and overall exhaustion.

"No clue. But I'm playing it." I request to TP to Preston and we join the lobby for the next round of party games as a handful of YouTube fans twerk around us, taking screenshots and spamming chat. I forget how many people watch my videos until I play on public servers and get mobbed. I grin and twerk back a few times as they get their screenshots, wondering what my and Preston's fans think of us recording together, especially his. I have found that my particular brand of humor is something of an acquired taste and induces a bit of ire on others' channels, especially my pranks. "There're so many peeps on tonight! What's up with that?"

"Nah, man. It's always like this. You should see it on the weekends; you can't see two blocks in front of you."

"That's crazy. Nice dance moves, dude. Where'd you learn that from?" He dismisses it nonchalantly but he is clearly annoyed that my mob of fans is bigger than his, and he changes the subject immediately, which is fine by me. I certainly don't want this to get any more awkward and Preston throws off a jealous vibe. It would be best to not mention our subscriber counts and awaken his inner homunculus, as hilarious as that may be.

"Who said I had to learn it? I am the lord of the dance!"

"Now, I think 'lord' might be a little bit of an overstatement. Is that all you've got?" He seems surprisingly easy to joke around with, though. Maybe he doesn't take this as seriously as I thought he did. At the very least, he has the improv bit down.

"Are you questioning me, good sir?"

"You could say I have some doubts." I walk over to his character and punch him right in the face, walking sideways and in a circle to dodge his counterattack.

"No! I told you, I am the _lord_ of the dance! You do not question your lord, you prole!"

"I am not a prole! And the only kind of lord you're ever gonna be is a pleblord!" He catches up and continues punching me, the crowd of fans jumping up and down in a sloppy circle around us and chanting for us to fight in chat.

"Stop, you heathen! At the very least put some clothes on! Good God, man!"

"Why? Don't you like what you see?" Now this could be a fun warm-up.

"Uh… Well… Of course I like what I see. That's the problem."

"Since when is being a handsome man a problem?" Preston shifts and spins around, twerking his character's ass in my direction. I pretend to spank him and receive a plethora of question marks in chat.

"It's distracting. You're just so… so bright and beautiful. Your glistening lava skin dims the Minecraft sun and turns glowstone into dust."

"So you like my hot bod?"

"It's the hottest of bods. I fan."

"Awww, shucks. You're making me blush. You can't be talking 'bout little ol' me!"

"Well, it's a little hard to miss you. You're… the only glowing thing here."

"Oh, so now I'm a _thing_!" He whips around and resumes punching me, his huge black Creeper eyes filling up most of my screen. Apparently, when I can't be blown up by normal Creepers, I get beat up by flaming Creepers.

'Oh, the puns!'

"I-I just…!"

"You really have a way with words, don't you? Typical basic." Finally the lobby has filled and the countdown starts for the game, the crowd streaming over to the opening gate in anticipation.

"Did you just call me a basic bitch?"

"Lulz," he replies as he bounds off after the crowd. His censorship firewall is going to be a barrel of fun, I can already tell. Judging by his previous videos, I will be hearing a lot about fudge, shrimp, pears, and a variety of other edibles very shortly. "Didn't you say you only had the basic kit on here?"

"Yeah. I-"

"So you really _are_ a basic!"

"That… that hurts, man. That really hurts. I thought we had something special."

"We just met like yesterday, Rob-a-dob. We ain't got nothin'."

"You're breaking my heart here. Don't be like Mitch. Maybe what we have is love at first sight?" I shift next to him and stare into his massive black hole eyes, and after about five seconds Preston starts cracking up.

"Okay, okay. Maybe love at first fight. Are we recording now?"

"Yeah, sounds good. Do you want to do the intro?"

"Sure thing. Ready?"

"Let's do this thing." I hit the record button on a new window of my editing software and I prepare to get my ass absolutely kicked. Besides the zombie archery game and the game with the mine carts, I never do well at party games, especially when Jerome isn't there to put the team on his back. I hope for an instant that I won't get targeted by my lovely fans but… We all know that isn't going to happen. The odds are more in my favor to find diamonds in my "Let's Play" than they are for me to actually have a chance at winning here.

"Three, two, one… Hey guys, Preston here with the one-and-only MrWoofless for a round of party games over on Hypixel! We're gonna see who's the party master and who's the party pleb!"

"We already know who the pleb is, after our very one-sided game of target practice a couple of days ago."

"Oh, shut the fudge up. I blame Benja for lettin' you live too long. I'm gonna get you back this time."

"Just keep telling yourself that – someday you might actually believe it." Everyone in the lobby gets teleported to the first randomized mini game: the horse race. I won't lie, I am a competitive guy and starting off with a luck-based game just might let me get a couple of free points up on Preston. After all, the only person in the world who does consistently well at the horse race is Jerome: karma seems to think that it can even things out by blessing him at party games after screwing him over in every other video game in existence. I have never seen anyone else who has such awful luck at video games. It's just… bad. As the timer counts down, I quickly glance at my horse and I am overjoyed that I wasn't saddled with the mule this round.

'Now I just have to somehow cream Preston while using a trackpad and all will be well.' Neither of our horses is anything special, but mine is just slightly faster than his. He tests his luck and sticks to the inner track so he can use the shortcut through the stalls, cheering his digital horse on like he had bet real money on the race. 'If I win this, it is going to be really difficult not to rub it in his face a little. He wouldn't take kindly to that.' We both fall silent in concentration during the third lap, and I manage to beat him by a hair.

"GG, man, GG. You had some risky strats going on back there."

"Yeah, GG. I had to give you a run for your money somehow. But who's the beast who beat us?" I check the current scoreboard and see that someone had bested my time by three full seconds, but I did not see anyone racing in front of me.

"Not a clue. I don't even remember seeing a 69CerealxKiller96 in the game, do you?"

"Nope. But I just wanted to kick your butt so…"

"You are such a nice guy, Preston."

"Awww, I try, dawg. What do we have up next?"

"King of the Hill."

'Damn it. I hate this game.'

"I fudging hate this game. I wish we could hide our usernames when we play on this server. Everyone's just gonna chase me around and try to kill me with baseball bats! They don't even play the actual game!"

"Same. RIP me."

"Truce?"

"Definitely. Good luck."

"Have fun."

"Don't die," I add, and he laughs as the game begins. I immediately run toward the center of the platform, dodging attacks and smacking my pursuers away as best I can. I see someone with a badly recreated Stampy skin reach the middle and start flinging everyone else away, so I settle for orbiting their spot and avoiding their stick.

"Get rekt! Now _that_ was a crit!" Preston is running around the left side of the platform, swatting everyone back down the hill once they reach the cobblestone blocks. He is mildly successful, holding his own at third place. I am so busy watching him squabble with a generic Steve that I drift too close to the player at the center and I rocket out of the circle and halfway down the hill.

"What the hell, man? How did they hit me so far?"

"Where'd you go?" Preston peeks over the edge at me and goes back to beating everyone into submission. "What'd you do to 'em to make 'em slap you like that?"

"I just wanted to snuggle, man. I wasn't even doing anything that bad! Why can't we just be friends?" I finally make it back onto the platform and try to get back into orbit, but the cat instantaneously shoots me back down the hill – without even looking at me. "The force… it is strong with this one."

"Say what?"

"Come check out this guy at the middle." I slowly start making my way back up the hill and Preston continues his impressive battle royale with six people.

"Nah, man. I'm good. I'm not into that kind of thing." I grin at that and walk up behind him, waiting for the crowd to thin out.

"Now isn't that a lie. Watch this." He spins around, looking for me, and I smack him head first at the player holding center. Preston flies forward into them, then soars in a wide arc off the platform without the cat ever hitting him.

"What was that?" he squeaks, sprinting back up the hill while I watch 69CerealxKiller96 jump up and down at center, their knockback stick never leaving their side. We still have about 20 seconds left of the game but the winner has already been decided.

"That, my friend, is a noob hacker. They are so bad they don't even try to hide it."

"Well then, I guess we have a new game. Ever play wall ball?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay, so you take a ball and bounce it against a wall and try to make the other person miss it so they get out."

"Are you calling all of these beautiful people balls?"

"Well, they bounce. Let's do this! I at least want us to get second and third if we can't win." Neither of us is content to lose, but we need to make the best of this recording. We run to opposite sides of the platform and start smacking the other players into the hacker, who unflinchingly sends each and every one flying off the center dais and halfway down the hill. Honestly, this is more fun than the actual mini game. Our scores skyrocket while fourth place gets farther and farther behind, each of our swings scoring home runs.

"This is _Sparta_!" I feed one last Steve to the Stampy cat demon and Preston sounds like he might be in tears. Every player stops to watch the vanilla Steve rise up into the sky while we wait for the next game to load up. "You okay there, man?"

"So… epic. I cry… every time." He starts hiccupping pathetically and I wish he had his webcam on so I could see him turn into a sobbing mess. "Best… mini game ever. We should start our own server and call it 'Hack Wars' or something and for the boss battle just randomly make someone in the lobby a hacker everyone has to kill."

"Bro, there is already a hacker in every lobby. It's like buying cereal: there's a prize in every box." He starts sobbing again and his hiccups intensify, like a tsunami of tears is drowning his vocal cords, forcing his voice to crack.

"H-he's the Cereal Killer!" Preston roars, and I start losing it, too. We just sit there and laugh at our own bad jokes while the game loads up the map for the avalanche mini game. We get our shit together just in time to sprint under the first platform, and I wipe tears from my eyes as the snowballs pelt down from the sky.

'The joke wasn't even that funny. I guess I must be exhausted, or I just really needed to laugh.' If there was one thing I had learned from this recording session, it was that Preston's hyena laugh is contagious. I sprint over to the far corner for wave two to escape from the huge crowd gathered at the center platform. From there, I can see Cereal standing perfectly still at the spawnpoint, punching aimlessly at the falling snowballs as they pass right through their body.

"Our little friend is back for round three." I run to the next platform and Preston joins me, staring at the fluorescent orange cat swatting at the snow. "Their skin isn't even the right color; they look like a flipping pylon."

"This is absolute bull shrimp. Why can't this person just die or quit or something and let everyone else play the fudging game?" I stifle a laugh at his indignation: it is impossible to take him seriously when he censors himself like my nine-year-old cousin. "I mean, we can't even get close enough to kill 'em so it just screws up the whole freakin' thing."

"I guess you and I are racing for second again, eh? What was the score last round?"

"I got second and you got third. They threw you outta the arena too many times."

"We are both still in the running, though. That's good enough for me." At this point, I just want to humiliate the hacker as much as possible. Sure, I might be giving them the publicity they want, but Preston and I are as good as handing them a lifetime ban from Hypixel and a flood of flame mail if they ever show their face on another public server or on our channels. This person is so toast their skin should be brown. We play three more peaceful rounds before the unexpected happens: Cereal starts moving. They start at the nearest platform and begin punching players out into the avalanche. "I guess the game wasn't moving fast enough for them."

"No kidding. This is just ridiculous. What do you even do to stop that? PVP's turned off until like round 15 or something," he replies, scanning the ice rink to find an escape route.

"At this point, you just run away from them and hope for the best. With any luck, they will get to us last and we can place."

"This sucks so hard. And I was beating your butt, too!"

"Hey, man, you aren't supposed to talk about our private life during the video." He laughs nervously and we sprint to the next platform, the demonic cat just a few platforms behind us. The stress is getting palpable now.

"I'm just not that good at multitasking when I have to deal with a hacker, too. Please bby, I fan. We do it next time." Preston's derpy voice turns into a shriek as Cereal runs toward us from the next platform.

"Punch it! Punch it!" We both turn and punch the cat as hard as we can and we go flying in different directions, just as planned. We duck under the platforms nearest to each of us and wait out the snow, watching the hacker warily. "I think we will have a better chance if we split up."

"Yeah, I think you're right. But I miss you, Rob-a-dob!"

"We can cuddle some more later. We have to place so we can show this person that you can have fun and win games without ruining it for everyone else. If they get close, just punch them and you will get away." Cereal picks off the players one by one until only Preston and I remain, and I silently cheer when they go after him first. After Preston dies, I make it as difficult as possible for Cereal to catch me, bouncing off their aura shield and picking the farthest platform each wave so they have to run across the entire map every time to try to get me. Even though the hacks eventually win out, the chat fills with cheering and jeering every time I escape from the hideous orange cat. Apparently Cereal isn't the crowd favorite.

"GG, dude. I bet there's one really angry ten-year-old out there somewhere."

"GG. They have to be completely livid. Today is the day I out-trolled a hacker. Today is a good day."

"The best. Maybe with a little luck they'll rage quit?" The fourth game loads and Cereal spawns in a boat only a few blocks away from Preston. "Nope! Nope! They're still here!"

"Well, it looks like it's GG for you, friendo. It was a good run."

"Shut the fudge up, Robert. I'm gonna win this one."

"Yeah, right. You can't beat Lucky Charms over there."

"What can they even do to hack a boat race?" The timer counts down and we prepare to race to the death. If I win this round, I will beat Preston by at least one game, and I can claim bragging rights that I managed to do it even with a mega hacker in the lobby. It would be nice to have an amicable relationship with him as a fellow gamer and YouTuber, but I could do with a few more running jokes even if they raise a few hairs. The glass blocks holding us back disappear, and we start coasting downstream. A few unfortunate players crash into the sides of the riverbed and I can feel a small rush of adrenaline when I reach and hold the first spot. Time and blocks fly by, but nothing matters except the logs attempting to pincer me ahead. I can see the last two obstacles at the end of the track and I think I might actually win at this game for the first time… Then Cereal comes running through the air, no boat in sight.

"Okay, no. Bro, you aren't a Super Saiyan." Cereal blazes farther and farther ahead and I know the race is lost. However, if I can still beat Preston, I can win both the battle and the war. This has to happen, Cereal or no Cereal.

"Fly like an eagle," Preston sings, trailing off with garbled humming.

"And you don't even know the words to the song. I just can't even right now." I swerve around the last log and I can see the finish line not even ten blocks in front of me. I am going to win this and redeem myself after all of those failed rounds against Jerome. Five blocks, four, three… My screen flashes and I am sitting at the top of the river, slowing drifting down from the starting line. "Wait, what? What just happened?" I can hear Preston snickering for a few seconds before he gives an irate screech, sounding eerily like a chimpanzee.

"No! Just no! You can't do that! You can hack and you can cheat and you can be a pleb and a noob, but you aren't allowed to be a complete prick!"

'Now that was unexpected. Did he just swear? Did I break Preston?'

"What happened?"

"The fudging hacker is sitting at the bottom of the fudging hill hitting everyone back from the fudging finish line and screwing up the fudging game! This is bull shrimp!"

'This is the most adorable hissy fit I have ever seen. This guy is just about as intimidating as a Furby when he rages. This needs to be immortalized on YouTube forever.'

"Maybe if we rush it together one of us can get through…?" Before Preston can answer, the rest of the hoard of players reaches the finish line and the sheer number of teleportations and hack report commands overwhelms the server and the game crashes. "Never mind that, then. GG?"

"Yeah… GG. I just wanted to kick your butt at some party games."

"What is up with you and my butt, man?"

"Naw, it's all about what's goin' down." We respawn in the main lobby of the server and Preston sprints over and crouches next to my character. I zoom out to a third person viewpoint and copy him, staring at the side of his head and inching closer and closer while he talks. "Well, thanks for watching this amazingly rage-inducing round of party games on Hypixel with me and the Woofless. Check out his channel and the server linked in the description and I'll see you again tomorrow for some more Minecraft server hopping. Bye guys!"

"I love you."

"Shut the fudge up." He punches my character away just as we end the recording, and I couldn't be more satisfied. It was hilarious and we both had a good run, plus I can use the feedback from this video to determine whether or not I should record with Preston in the future. Depending on how he edits this video, how he handles the comments, and how he markets it on his channel, I should be able to gauge if he is trustworthy. The irony of him leaving me out of the titles of our two previous recordings was not lost on me.

"I just want to live like they do in the Disney movies! Is that so bad?"

"Like _Beauty and the Beast_? Dude, you'll have to talk to Jerome about that one."

"I was thinking more along the lines of _The Princess and the Frog_. I could use some real food." I can already smell Mom's holiday cooking and the thought brings the familiar swell of stress and anxiety crashing down over my head. I only have until tomorrow to record, edit, upload, and schedule seven videos plus this one.

'After you do all of that, though, you might be able to earn enough from advertisements to not have to starve yourself through January.' As amazing as this recording session seems to have been, I need to get back to grinding out challenge videos for the new "Let's Play" series that begins tomorrow. I disconnect from Hypixel and return to my private server to continue legitimately AFKing my supply farms.

"Now I don't mean to brag but my cooking skills aren't half bad. I'll send you some good ol' fashioned Southern cookin' for Christmas that'll make all your dreams come true."

"Yeah, thanks Prince Charming, but I think it would be cold by the time it got here."

"Nah, dude, it's Prince Naveen." I pause for a second, trying to decipher what Preston could be talking about. "From _The Princess and the Frog_? You're never gonna have that fairy-tale-happy-ending if you can't even get your references right, Rob-a-Dob. You're as bad as Mitch."

"Now that is just cruel. How could you say something like that to me?" He laughs, like he actually, genuinely laughs, and none of this is being recorded.

'Maybe he isn't the villain I thought he was? Could he just be a really good actor, or is all of this real?' For now, there is nothing I can do except wait for his videos to be uploaded and hope I haven't somehow walked into a trap.

"Aww, you know I didn't mean it, baby. You're a handsome man and I like your face too much."

'Okay, whoa. Is this guy messing around or is he flirting with me really badly? Does he not know how old I am or is he just into much older guys? Either way, this is not going to end well for me if he thinks I have been flirting back: he's like fifteen and I'm twenty-five. Even through Skype, he could try to get me for statutory rape or some other charge if I piss him off. On the other hand, he is just so awkward altogether… I have to be misreading him because, as Jerome always says, this is _bad_.'

"O-kay? Is that… a compliment?"

"Of course it's a compliment! Would you rather have me say I didn't like your face?"

'Yes.'

"I guess not. I just wasn't expecting you to say something like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something nice?" He pauses for a second and I can hear him typing something for a second before he answers.

"Now don't be a pleb." I give an involuntary snort of laughter and he laughs back at me while he continues typing. "Hey, I hate to run but my mom's e-mailing me from downstairs and she's threatening to turn off the Wi-Fi. Are you gonna be around for a little while?" He sounds so hopeful that I almost feel bad turning him down.

"No, I have some major video grinding to do tonight before I leave, and I really just need to suck it up and finish this new series. It was a good time tonight, though."

"Where're you going?"

"What?"

"You said you were leaving. Where're you going?"

"My family has this huge get-together every year for the holidays and all the birthdays and reunions and everything, so I'm going to be gone until the 27th or so. Why do you ask?" It might seem harsh, even heartless, to bait him like this, but the more I learn about him now, the less I have to stress about or figure out later on.

"Oh. So you won't be around to record for a while, then."

"No, not until the end of the month. Why, did you have something in mind?"

"I just thought… maybe we could record some more mini games or a quick series or something together? Maybe?"

'Dear God, he acts like he is asking me out on a date. Why does he have to make this so complicated and awkward?'

"Sure, we can figure it out over the vacation or something. You know, my family lives in the middle of Quebec, not the vast wilderness of Nunavut. We still have electricity and internet, even though that only works about half of the time."

"Okay, yeah, that sounds great! Just on YouTube or…?"

" _Preston!_ " A wave of pity washes over me; I can hardly imagine how loud his mom must have screamed if I can hear her through his headphone mic behind a closed door and down a flight of stairs.

"That will work. Talk to you later."

"Yeah, thanks again for everything."

"No problem, man." I disconnect the Skype call and minimize the program, my Minecraft character's face two blocks away from a spaced out, dead-eyed, pixelated cow. "Well Procy, shall we do some editing while we wait for the wheat to grow and the cows to cook?" The laptop answers with its typical silence, and I back up the new footage to my external hard drive while I open the hard-won blueberry Pop Tart I had fished out of the vending machine with a hanger. Tonight is going to be a very, very long night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Trigger Warning: We're getting into some heavy stuff here, but I don't want to spoil the chapter with summaries. I gave this story an M rating for a reason: if you feel you aren't able to handle it, I encourage you to click away. Please take a look at the story description for an updated list of warnings.**

* * *

 **December 12, 2010 at 6 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Ungh…" The moan coming from my mouth sounds pathetic even to me as I blindly reach over to the nightstand to try and find my phone. I forgot to turn the volume back down yesterday after binging on a butt ton of YouTube videos and I can already imagine Dad and Daka yelling at me for waking them up. I quickly turn off the alarm and check my notifications, a stupid smile creeping onto my face when I see that Rob posted two new videos already this morning. Even better, one of them is the PVP battle we recorded on Monday with Mitch. I scan the titles a couple of times and for a second I'm tempted to watch our video real quick, but a new notification pops up on my screen and it plays the dreaded Halo song I now hate because it only ever brings bad news: I have a trig test today that I totally spaced about.

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap! How did I forget about this test?! Crap! I fly out of bed and get dressed as fast as I can, skipping breakfast and a shower because I really, really need to cram for this test. Math has never been a specialty of mine but I don't think I'm that bad at it. My grades are pretty good – I mean, I haven't earned anything lower than a B in two years. And I promised Mom and Dad I wouldn't screw up again. I gave up all the partying and sneaking out and staying out all night, and I brought my grades up so they would let me start YouTube last year. I'm so royally screwed if I don't get a good grade on this test.

"And here I was, telling Kenny not to blow it. Crap," I mutter, digging the study guide out of my backpack and checking to make sure I finished all the problems. "Only three more and I can check them with Kenny's stuff in second period and go over it some more at lunch. It'll be fine, this'll work out." This is why I hate the week before winter break. Seriously dude, what even are you? You serve no purpose but to screw up everyone's vacation and make everyone miserable and sad and stressed out for no freaking reason! And then we come back for like a week before we take midyear exams! What even is the point?

I wonder how Rob manages to record so many videos and go to school at the same time? Did he already graduate from high school? Does he go to college? What's his major? I shake my head and get back to work. I'm even annoying myself at this point. Why does it matter what Rob does during the day? That's so frickin' stalkerish and he probably wouldn't tell me, anyways.

"If I don't do this right now, I won't have to worry about Rob or Mitch or anyone else on YouTube because _I_ won't be on YouTube. Come on, Preston, focus!"

* * *

 **December 12, 2010 at 5 AM, Quebec City, Quebec: Rob**

The alarm on my phone sounds like a nuclear reactor but I can't be bothered to turn it off. Honestly, I doubt I could move if I wanted to, and I really don't want to. Exhaustion isn't even the problem: this thick grey haze is darkening my vision and clouding my mind, and I just don't have the strength to fight it. I stare at the phone's glowing screen, the only light in the pitch black hotel room, and I just sit there and wait for it to turn itself off. I was never really asleep, anyway. My eyes drift over to Procyon and I see that even my laptop has fallen asleep, the tiny white light pulsating like a heart.

'If I only had a heart.' Others tell me that I am a nice guy, that I am friendly and smart, that I can do anything with my life if I just give it my best shot. They are all wrong. I can't even will myself off of my creaky, musty bed to face the world, let alone try to change that world. I can't even control my own life: I didn't start YouTube for money, but I need the money so desperately now that making videos no longer has the same feeling or purpose it used to. No one really knows me or my motives. In my head where no one else can see, I am a devious, conniving bastard who analyzes everyone else like they are nothing more than mindless fruit flies, dissected on a glass slide to fit under the lens of my microscope. Life is just a game of chess and everyone else is just a piece in the game. I take pride in my wits, but they make me heartless and calculating, and I end up feeling colder than the ice conquering the roadways of Quebec. After all, that ice was once harmless, powdered snow, but over time it froze itself into a harsh, pitiless hazard. Am I destined to be like that snow?

In times like these, I wish I could just turn my mind off and wake up after the fog has passed, when life can go on like normal. I want to sleep through it, however long it will take, even if it means never waking up again. Even after eleven years of suffering from major depressive disorder, this monster still flattens me every time it reveals its ugly face, and I still have no control over myself during my episodes. I have made so many stupid decisions, I have hurt so many people so much, I have hurt myself so much… And every last second of it is my own fault. I know this all too well, yet I still have no power over my own body and mind. I am too weak. I look down at my hands and try to move a finger, and the movement feels more like trying to push a freight train. I am a modern-day Sisyphus trying to push a boulder up a mountain, but my torture is even worse; I know what it feels like to make it to the top of the peak, only to watch it all come crashing down again and again.

No, the worst part of it all is trying not to think about what caused all of this in the first place. Was it Nessa, Mike, and the drama with the guys at Machinima that caused my depression, or did I cause everything to crumble? Did my fall from grace trigger my episode, or did I bring all of it crashing down on my own head? What did I do wrong? Why did it have to happen? Why do I have to feel this way? Why does it have to hurt so much for so long? I just want all of it to end but if my last three escape attempts were any indication, I am not even capable of finding my way out of my own mental maze. I am so worthless, so incompetent, that I can't even manage to kill myself.

'This is why you don't have a job,' Mitch's jibe echoes in my head, and I would smile if I still had control of my face.

'You understand me more than you know, Mitch.' The alarm finally stops and I stare at the generic picture of the aurora borealis on the screen until the backlight turns off. I have twelve hours to pack up my makeshift home and make it to Montreal for dinner, and I can hardly move a finger.

* * *

 **December 12, 2010 at 1 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

After the most stressful math test of life, English lit is nothing. We're reading freaking _Romeo and Juliet_ aloud in class again and I didn't bother to volunteer for a part. I'm so over this play I can't even think about it without gagging. I thought the fourth time was bad, well… We'll just say the fifth time wasn't the charm. I was almost tempted to pull out my phone and my ear buds and watch stuff from my YouTube subscription feed under my desk, but I know I'd start laughing and blow my cover. I end up staring at my textbook and pretending to follow along, memorizing the last line of the page so I'll know when someone says it and not look like a complete space case. It works for the most part and it's a win-win situation: the teacher thinks I'm reading the play and I get to think about whatever I wanna think about. And I've been thinking a lot about my recording with Rob yesterday.

Even though I know basically nothing about him, he seems like a really nice guy and I had a blast working with him after we got through all the awkwardness. There's just something magnetic about him that draws you in and makes you feel… warm. I hadn't laughed that hard in weeks, and I enjoyed hanging out with him so much that nothing else seemed to matter (including a huge trig exam). I thought the whole thing would've been really stressful like it kinda is with Mitch and the other big YouTubers, but he seems so calm and collected even under the over-the-top acting that he just puts you at ease. Rob is a person, not just a character, and the fact that he's the same person whether or not he's recording makes him seem genuine and trustworthy, even if some of his jokes are a little strange and go a little too far. He's like one of five people I've met on YouTube so far that I can stand spending more than twenty minutes at a time with, and I'll admit I was kinda disappointed that he couldn't stay a little longer in the Skype call last night. I think if we met in real life we'd be friends, and I could definitely use a few more of those.

The best thing about being friends with other YouTubers is that they just get you – they get what it feels like to hit a sub milestone, and why you sometimes have to stay up all night to make sure your videos are ready and will upload the next day, and how stressful it is in May and June when you have to juggle school and videos with no time and no sleep but you still get fewer views. They get it and it feels good. But somehow, Rob seems to get it even more, like he already worked out the formula and he's just waiting for everyone else to catch up. He knows what he should say and what he can't say, and he somehow says it all while making it hilarious. MrWoofless is the kind of YouTuber I want to be and the kind of friend I want to have. I wanna have an epic bromance with this guy and it isn't even for the views. He just gets life. He feels 3D when most of the other YouTubers I've worked with barely seem 2D. He's funny and relatable and witty and sarcastic, and it feels like he's sharing a part of himself with you when you watch his videos, like you've known him forever and you're in on the joke.

And more than that, he really doesn't seem to give a shrimp what anyone else thinks of him. I don't think I've ever seen someone get called gay or queer or a fag as many times as Rob does, but he just doesn't give a single fudge. He does whatever he wants to do and he doesn't change himself to make everyone else happy, even when hundreds of people are calling him names and telling him to kill himself. Not only does he not care, but he incorporates the haters' comments into his videos and makes it part of his character and his jokes just to spite them. If they tell him that making his base in a flower biome is gay, he gathers an inventory full of flowers and puts them all through his house for the next episode. I can't imagine how good it must feel to just let go of what everyone else thinks about you and just do whatever the frick it is you want to. The less he cares, the more highly I think of him and the more I wish I was like him.

I wonder what he thinks about me? I turn the page in my textbook and try to prop my head up at a different angle to look like I'm still paying attention. He probably thinks I'm a complete a-hole after our first two recordings. I really jumped the gun and screwed that up. I feel more and more guilty every time I think about it, and the fact that Rob still uploaded one of the videos and even offered to record with me again just makes me feel worse. If it'd been me, I would've deleted the videos and pretended he didn't exist from that point on. I need to make it up to him somehow and show him I'm not a total jerkwad, and the best place to start would be to actually give him credit for the first two videos we did together by adding his name in the title and his character in the thumbnail. After this god-awful class ends, I have to go home and make that right at the very least. If you wanna get out of a ditch, the first thing you have to do is stop digging the hole. Someone up front says the cue and I turn to the next page, trying not to roll my eyes at the cheesy illustration of a sword fight that someone had already drawn mustaches and eyelashes on. Memorize the phrase, space out, turn the page, rinse, and repeat.

What does Rob look like? This has been the question of the day for three days now and I still don't have a clue. Yesterday I found out that he used to record on another YouTube channel with some guys from Machinima, but the channel and all its videos have been removed. After a ton of Google searches and some more lurking on YouTube, his Minecraft skin is still the only clue I have and that isn't a very good clue. He might have brown hair and he might like the color blue, and he might look like a humanoid instead of something from Halo, but that's all I've got. For all I know, he could weigh six hundred pounds and be confined to his living room, or maybe he's like sixty years old and retired from the army or SWAT or the FBI. He could be some kind of online cop looking for pedophiles or something. Maybe _he's_ a pedophile.

This is getting too weird. You didn't think this kind of stuff about Jerome before he started doing facecam. How likely is it that Rob's a six-hundred-pound retired pedophile cop? I have to cover my mouth to keep myself from laughing and Kenny gives me a weird look from across the room. I grin and point down at my book and he nods, not entirely convinced. What the heck is wrong with me? He's probably just a regular guy who just moved into his own apartment and is getting ready to go back to college or something. There's nothing weird about that. I'm still a little creeped out by the whole 'MrWoofless the Invisible Man' thing, but I don't know what else to do to learn more about him.

Wait… Mitch and Jerome know him, too. It'd be too awkward to ask Mitch after what happened the other day, but Jerome could help me out. We could play a couple rounds of Party Games on Hypixel and I could casually pump him for some more info. This might work. What's the worst that could happen? We both know Jerome's gonna kick my butt at all the games, but I'll get a heck of a lot more information from the Bacca than I did from that stupid Wiki page. I smile to myself and turn to the next page, counting down the seconds more than ever.

* * *

 **December 12, 2010 at 1 PM, Quebec City, Quebec: Rob**

I stuff the last box into the trunk of my car and slam the lid, relieved to have found a way to fit it all so my parents wouldn't see that my car has basically become a mobile home. I return to the hotel lobby to turn in my room key and pay for my final day, and the expression on the owner's face makes me even more determined to find somewhere else to stay after I get back from Montreal. I caused zero trouble while I stayed here, I paid every last cent of my bill on time, and I even refrained from redecorating their hideous room with cranberry juice to get rid of the sight and smell of it. I also look like a normal human being now: I shaved and washed my hair, and I can guarantee that my clothes are cleaner than his. I briefly consider that he might know of my twice-daily vending machine raids, but I am sure he would have evicted me if he knew. I smile as I leave, knowing I will never have to spend another night of my life in this hell hole of a hotel.

In my car, I quickly check the traffic conditions and my bank account before I leave, and I am relieved to see that the direct deposit from my YouTube ad sponsorships has been credited and cleared. I slowly drive away from the hotel, searching for the nearest gas station to fill up my nearly empty gas tank, the result of a frantic search for somewhere, anywhere, far away from Nessa and our old apartment. I spot a Qwik Stop three streets down and a familiar hunger courses through my veins; I need something to make this deep, grey emptiness go away. I only have two alternatives: smell like Krakatoa's ass, or wrap my arms up like an ancient pharaoh and hope no one notices. I decide to go with the more socially acceptable of these sins and plan to drop in at the gas station's store to buy breakfast and a pack of cheap cigarettes. Either way my parents are going to disapprove, but I am sure they would prefer a little smoke to a lot of blood.

'Besides, smoking a few cigarettes is less likely to land me in the hospital in the immediate future. The last thing I need right now is to make them start worrying about me again.' If it took five antidepressant pills to get out of bed this morning, it might take the rest of the bottle to get out of bed after a few days of cutting. 'It is still a blessing they can't see what goes on inside my head. Their nightmares might end up worse than mine. They are too good for someone as broken as me.' I stop the car and take my time getting out, cleaning out the week-old trash and preparing myself to deal face-to-face with actual people inside the store. I feel a fresh wave of gratitude for my past self's foresight as I wait for my gas tank to fill, knowing that if I had not paid cash for this car I would have no vehicle at all. Right now, there is absolutely no way I could juggle a car payment on top of everything else. 'Perhaps a little impulsivity is a good thing.'

The fuel pump clicks off and I replace the nozzle and the gas cap, both my stomach and my lungs growling for relief. I cross the parking lot and troll through the little convenience store, the clerk watching my every move as I grab a root beer, a bag of hot Cheetos, and a pre-heated breakfast sandwich to tide me over for the three hour trip. I buy a pack of wanna-be Marlboros and a good lighter, stopping outside the door to get a quick smoke in before I begin the journey home. After all, no one wants ashes and cigarette burns all through their new car, even if it is only a cheap Hyundai. I relish the smell of the smoke and hold the last breath of it as long as I can, crushing the stub out in a gaudy orange ashtray outside the storefront. I pick out my dark blue sedan from the line-up of cars and slowly walk over to it, the last whisps of smoke billowing through the cold air behind me. Three hours and two hundred fifty kilometers and I will be home eating real, fresh-cooked meals and evading fake, self-centered relatives. After this little trip, I think I might try to find somewhere else to live: I can't stand living in Montreal or Quebec City anymore.

* * *

 **December 12, 2010 at 3 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I'm a free man now. No homework, no tests, no projects, no chores, and no worries. Hakuna matata, mother fudgers! Tomorrow's the last day of school before winter break starts and we're just gonna watch movies and stuff our faces all freaking day. I have so much free time now that it's not even funny, and I'm gonna waste every single second of it and it's gonna be great. Plus, I get Friday alone at home when everyone else has school or work, so I can stay up all night and sleep in 'til four if I want to. There are so many games and so many videos and so many possibilities that I can't even fathom it right now. I decide to procrastinate a little bit on editing the footage from yesterday and I log in to YouTube the minute I get to my room to shoot the Bacca a DM. Jerome hasn't been online for a while so he should be back on soon.

"inb4 he fell asleep as soon as he got home and won't wake up before tomorrow." I snicker at the very real possibility and send him a message challenging him to some Party Games, knowing there's no way he could resist a free pass to kick some butt. I won't bother recording it because I don't need the footage, and it wouldn't be smart to post gossip about another YouTuber online where the world can see it. I don't wanna start World War III – I just need to play Twenty Questions with my main Bac. "How am I gonna do this without looking like a complete weirdo?" I could ask how he and Mitch met Rob and how they started recording together, and about why his first channel got deleted. That seems normal enough and I could get a ton of info from just my first two questions. With any luck, I won't have to ask much more and risk looking like a complete psycho stalker. In the end, I'm only doing this so I can figure out if I should be recording with him or if there's some huge backstory to the whole thing I should be aware of. This is actually a very real concern, and it wouldn't be smart to keep associating with him if it turns out something went down. The fact that Machinima dropped him and removed all of his content looks really suspicious and really bad on Rob's part.

But he seems like a good guy. What happened? While I wait for the Bacca, I start editing the footage from last night and I end up having to watch it a second time because I'm laughing too hard to actually edit. It's like a roller coaster at Six Flags – it goes from tense competition to good-humored teasing and back, and no one failed at life or offended anyone. It was fair and fun and friendly, and if he's willing to work with me again, we could both benefit from a recording partnership. He could be the Jerome to my Mitch and we could form an awesome alliance against the BenjandBac and compete with them at PVP and stuff.

"He just needs to work on his parkour. I mean seriously dude, that was awful the other day." On the other hand, he still beat Mitch by a landslide so … He's not the worst, either. "And I definitely don't wanna face him in PVP until I get some more practice in. I think I need to lay off the parkour and learn some new battle strats." I could do some off-camera practice rounds with some random people on a server, then invite Rob to join me or challenge me or whatever. Win or lose, I need to improve. In my defense, I've only been doing Minecraft for a little over five months and I'm still learning. My PVP isn't that bad, but when bows, TNT, and other projectiles come into play I'm about as useless as a Creeper in a bedrock room.

I could use some help with my lack of building skills, too. Rob isn't that great of a builder either, but at least he's creative and he has the patience to finish stuff and be content with whatever it looks like. Whenever I try to build something, I just nuke it and live in a hollowed out hill so no one can make fun of the big, square cobblestone Alcatraz I always end up with. I'll admit that I'll never be perfect at everything, but if Rob and I are gonna work together, we should both be at least decent at everything and be able to complement each other's skills.

"But how am I gonna persuade him to keep working with me?" I save my editing and go back on YouTube to fix the titles, descriptions, and thumbnails on the first two videos I recorded with Rob, hoping he somehow didn't see them before. It was a really crappy thing for me to do but I don't know what else I can do about it besides not do it again. "Should I apologize to him?" I reopen my editing software and stare blankly at the spikes in the audio. I hate apologizing to people. I'm so bad at it and it never really solves anything. It just makes you look weak and stupid, like you're admitting that you don't think the other person can get over it or something. Everyone makes mistakes and does stupid things, but if we just sat here apologizing for every little freaking thing nothing would ever get accomplished. It's better just to move on and not do it again. You shouldn't have to announce all of your mistakes into a megaphone when both people know what you did was screwed up and you change it.

But what does _he_ think? This is where it gets fuzzy – I don't know him well enough to figure out if he's ticked off at me or if he's over it. He apologized to me for interrupting the recording but I didn't think I needed to apologize to him at the time and I didn't think it was necessary yesterday since he agreed to record with me again. This is where I always get in trouble with people: I think I know how they think, but I don't actually know how they think and I make assumptions about what they think and try to be one step ahead of them. The bad thing is, this only works in video games and it makes me look like a complete douche when I try to figure out real people. I lose my cool and I act in the moment without thinking it through all the way, which has landed me in a ton of trouble in the past. As Mom likes to remind me, I'm a typical Taurus. I sigh at the stalemate between my mind and my conscience and I fiddle with my webcam and replace its battery while I check to see if the Bacca logged on yet. No such luck.

"It doesn't make any sense to apologize to him. He seemed fine with it and he didn't say anything about it, and he even posted one of the videos. Maybe I'll DM him an apology if he doesn't post the parkour vid, but there's no point looking like a complete idiot when he doesn't even care about it."

But is he passive aggressive about this kind of thing like Mitch is? Is it a Canadian thing? I groan and put my head down on my desk so I won't have to see his Minecraft skin in the thumbnail anymore. Guilt is the worst feeling ever and I seriously don't know what to do here. I don't wanna look like an a-hole or he won't record with me, and I don't wanna look like an idiot or he won't record with me. He either won't like me or he won't take me seriously. I go back to YouTube to see if Jerome signed in yet, but he's still MIA. I guess I'll just see what I can learn from the Bacca before I make a decision. I hope Rob's cool with it because I suck at sorrys.


	5. Chapter 5

**December 12, 2010 at 5 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"I thought I smelled trouble," Jerome says as soon as I answer the Skype call, and I watch in envy as he takes a huge bite of pizza. I haven't made it downstairs to grab some leftovers yet and I'm starving, and somehow he just magically knows how to get on everyone's nerves in the worst possible way. He's the most endearing kind of annoying there is and I can't imagine him any other way, but if he was sitting next to me I would punch him in the side of the head and take his pizza. That's just what happens when you act like a cactus and call someone while you're stuffing your face. "For a second I thought it was just the olives, but then I saw that you messaged me and I knew it had to be you." He sees me staring at his food and starts modeling with it, like he's some kind of porn star or something.

"Are you here to play or are you here to gloat?" He smirks and takes another huge bite before he sets the slice down, brushing his hands together to get rid of the crumbs.

"I'd say I was here to gloat, but I'm not really sure why I'm here. Why am I here?"

"That's a little deep for Wednesday night, dude. Don't be gettin' all philosophical on me here."

"You know what I'm talking about." He sits there and stares at me with his creepy freaking unreadable eyes and I just start laughing. There's nothing funny about it but Jerome's stares are unnerving and I can't control it – I laugh when I'm nervous. "P, you hate party games. You bitch every time you have to play party games. Why would you suddenly want to challenge the party games master and get your ass handed to you unless there was something else you wanted?"

"Can't a man just play some Minecraft with his favorite Bacca? I just thought you'd wanna hang out and-"

"Cut the crap. What do you want?" He picks up his pizza again and rips into it like a shark, his eyes never leaving my face on the screen. If I hadn't met him through Mitch and been assured that he's mostly sane, I wouldn't've touched the guy with a ten foot pole. It's like he knows… everything. He just sits there and studies people and it's frickin' creepy. It feels like he can see inside your head and he just likes to screw with you. Anyone who thinks Jerome isn't smart has obviously never met the guy.

"I just wanted some information on another Crafter and I thought you'd be the best one to talk to. Since you know like, everyone ever." He looks satisfied with himself and sets his food down, his eyes still not leaving my face on the screen.

"You've come to the right Bac, Lava P. I know a little bit about Rob-a-Dob, or at least more than Mitch does. He never pays attention to anything, kinda like you." How did he know…?

"I watched the videos you recorded with him and Mitch the other day. If it was any more awkward, it'd have more down votes than the fake Pokemon leaks on Reddit. You should go take a look at some of the comments on Mitch's perspective – I bet you didn't earn yourself any subs _that_ day."

"Did Mitch tell you about that?"

"Mitch doesn't tell me shit. He's too good of a guy to talk about other people behind their backs. Like I said, I watched the videos."

"Why were you watching Mitch's videos?"

"What else does the average teenager do besides waste every waking hour on YouTube? And why wouldn't I? I watch everything my friends post and I watch everyone they record with to see if there's something going on that we should know about or someone we shouldn't be working with anymore. And I'll be honest here, P, you didn't earn any points in my book." My throat tightens and I give an involuntary gulp, but I don't think he saw it. Then again, he might be recording this to show to Mitch later, or worse, he might tell Rob about this. This was an awful idea. I totally underestimated him and this is really bad.

"YouTube is all diplomacy, P, and we all need to learn to work together and get along and not start trouble. Now you got real lucky that it was only Rob and Mitch in the call that day, because if it'd been me, I would've torn you a new one and hung up on you. And it'd be a cold day in hell before I posted the videos or worked with you again. Now the other two are too nice and too easygoing to say it like it is, but I'm the honest one who'll always tell you the truth. And as I see it, you fucked up."

"But they're both fine with it, and Rob and I are cool now. I just recorded with him again yesterday and he wasn't mad or anything. Everything's good now." He nibbles the pizza down to the crust and tosses the paper plate somewhere off-screen before he replies.

"That might be true for now, but the whole thing's up on the internet where everyone can see it and no one forgets anything, and that includes Mitch and Rob and me. If it happens again, you're gonna have a _whole_ lotta hate raining down on your head from all sides. I'm guessing you didn't know he was a thing when you first met him."

"I had no freakin' clue who he was. I still don't."

"Well, Rob might be too nice for his own good, but you know the internet and you know what happens when people start playing fan wars." I just stare at him and he rolls his eyes, reaching behind him to grab the whole box of pizza from the dining room table. "Sometimes I forget what a noob you are at the Tubez. If you start playing good-guy-bad-guy with other YouTubers, especially ones with bigger channels and better reputations, you lose other Tubers' respect and a shit load of subs. And battling it out with 'Rob the Goodie-Two-Shoes Flower King' is like taking a baseball bat to a glass window and saying it was the window's fault it broke."

"I know I effed up but everything's chill now. He's good, I'm good, Mitch's good, we're all good."

"It'd be in your best interest to keep it that way. You wouldn't make a Chihuahua fight a St. Bernard, right? Even if the Chihuahua barks and scares the St. Bernard away from the bone, the Chihuahua's still screwed if the St. Bernard takes a dump on its head."

"What?" He takes another bite before he answers and he wipes his face on the side of his hand.

"You know what I mean. It's Confucius. Basically, if you make it into an ultimatum where subs can only like you or they can only like Rob, a ton of them are gonna jump ship and unsub from you if you're being a dick, especially if you have a smaller channel. And we're not even talking spam and flames and dislikes here. If you like being on YouTube and you plan on sticking around for a while, don't go around leaving scars and picking fights. Who do you think you are, man?"

"So what should I do?"

"Stop using people and grow a heart." Now that stings. I can feel my face heat up and I watch him eat his stupid pizza in silence. This isn't turning out like I expected at all. This is humiliating and it freaking sucks. "I told you I'd be honest with you. Sometimes the truth hurts, but I think you needed to hear it. You aren't gonna make it in the big leagues on the Tubez if you can't even handle 100K status. And once it gets some momentum, it grows _fast_. You need to get some allies to help you deal with this kind of shit, but if you don't grow up real quick Mitch and I won't be around to help you out."

"You aren't bailing on me after this?" He studies me while he picks at his pizza, like he's looking for something in my face.

"Of course not! A friend of Mitch's is a friend of mine, as long as they don't try to screw either of us over. If you'd pissed Mitch off it'd be a different story, but since it all looks good in the neighborhood and Rob is such an affable son of a gun, it looks like you're off the hook. Just watch yourself." I can't tell if he's threatening me or joking around and it's really creeping me out. I could stare at his face for a year and I still wouldn't be able to tell you what he meant by that. Remind me to never play poker with a Bacca… Jeez, he can see into my freaking soul.

"Got it. It won't happen again." There's another long pause and Jerome continues eating his third giant piece of pizza like I'm not even there. "So… Since you know everything that goes on on YouTube, I was wondering if you'd answer a few questions for me."

"Ya know, Baccas are omniscient. We just don't like to tell people about it or they'd never stop asking us about the future." He pauses and slurps the tomato sauce from his lips. It's a relief to see that his normal sense of humor is coming back and I won't have to deal with the freaking Godfather anymore. "What do you want to know?"

"I did some digging around after we got done recording the two videos on Sunday night and I can't find anything about Rob. It's like he just fell from the sky or something."

"Like an angel?" Jerome smirks and picks a couple olives off his pizza before he replies. "He doesn't talk much about his private life, but then again, no sane Tuber does. He started off on a gaming channel with a couple guys from Machinima, which is how I met him. They did the standard COD, Battlefield, Halo, Creed, all the mainstream stuff and screwed around with people online in multiplayer. He says he started his Minecraft channel because he already played it and wanted to join in on the feeding frenzy, but I think he secretly knew that some shit was about to go down and he wanted an escape route. That was a very smart move.

"In September some rumors got around about one of his recording buddies stealing money from a big charity livestream or something, but it all blew over and it was just a bad meme in the comment section for a while. It was just _bad_. At the beginning of November, the whole thing came back full force and it turned out it was more than true. Some of the other people ended up being implicated, too, which I think included Rob's girlfriend. Judging by the way he reacted after the big reveal, he wasn't involved in it, and he peaced the scene right before the nuke touched down. Machinima ended their contracts, closed their channel, removed all of their videos, and erased all evidence of them working for the company, and they were never seen or heard from again. The end." He says it so matter-of-factly that it takes a few seconds for me to actually believe him. How could he know so much if he wasn't involved?

'Then again, this _is_ Jerome, and he has his mysterious ways.'

"How did you and Mitch meet him?" He thinks about it for a second while he chews, and he looks disgusted by something.

"Ugh, I hate banana peppers. Why you do dis to me, Dad?" He leans down out of the video frame to get something from the floor and comes back with a brand new quart of chocolate milk. Baccas are the filthiest creatures in the universe, I swear. "I was a fan of his old channel and when I saw that he was starting a Minecraft channel, I asked if we could meet up and record a couple games. We got to be friends and I invited him to record with Mitch and me and everyone benefited from it. It was good times."

"Do you know anything else about him?"

"Huh? Are you turning into a fanboy or something?" He snickers as I turn red again and he leans back in his chair, clutching the bottle of milk. "What do you want to know? His address?"

"I'm not a freakin' stalker! I just don't like working with someone I don't know anything about. I wanna know what I'm getting myself into before I step in it." Jerome nods and pretends to think for a second.

"He has luscious brown hair and beautiful hazel brown eyes, and he enjoys walks on the beach. And flowers." He cackles and takes another swig of milk, looking smug and evil in his dark office.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"What do you want me to say? He does what he wants and he somehow ekes out a living without turning into a two-faced, arrogant prick. His girlfriend was a gold-digging bitch, but that's none of my business." He casually takes a long drink and wipes his mouth on his arm, staring at me with his beady brown eyes.

"So he's not some kind of weirdo?"

"It depends what you mean by 'weird'. 'Weird' is relative." He takes another gulp of chocolate milk and grins that stupid grin that's supposed to look all nice and innocent. "He's relatively normal, if any of us can be considered normal. But he does take a lot of sudden trips. That's a little suspicious." As usual, I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

"So he's okay to work with? He isn't just gonna decide to make a run for it again one day and leave me hangin'?"

"Nah, he's fine. He's nit-picky and kinda OCD if you work with him on big projects, which can get pretty annoying, but he's like clockwork and he never misses a recording even if it means he doesn't sleep. If this is how he is with Minecraft, I'd hate to see how he dealt with school."

"He already graduated?"

"Yeah, a few years ago. I think he got like halfway through college before he left to do YouTube full-time. He studied economics or marketing or something else that sounds really exciting. But don't quote me on that. I know he's a few years older than Mitch and me, though, so he's at least twenty." He finishes off his milk and chucks the bottle behind him on the table before putting his hands behind his head and his feet up on the desk. "You're what, sixteen? That's illegal in all fifty states and Canada."

"It's only illegal if they find out about it." He snickers and I try to keep myself from turning bright red like a cherry. From now on, the light'll be off whenever I try to Skype Jerome. He's getting a kick out of this and I know I'm just adding to his mental database about me.

"Is our little interrogation over now?"

"Yeah, you're free to go. Thanks for the help." He nods and gives me a normal smile, but I know he's still watching my every move.

"No problem, Lava P. Just remember: don't press the red button and look both ways before you cross the street." He can seriously make advice out of anything.

"Will do. Thanks again."

"Slurp ya later, bud." A loud, obnoxious slurping noise fills my headphones until I end the Skype call and I'm more than relieved that it's over. As useful as his information was, I feel like he got more dirt on me than I did on Rob. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna regret this little chat someday.

At least now I know that he's watching me all the time like the freakin' YouTube CIA or something. Even though the call has ended and I've closed Skype, it feels like he's still analyzing me and waiting for me to screw up. I remove the battery from my webcam and put it at the top of my keyboard so it won't roll away. It's like he made a deal with the Devil and traded color vision for mind vision or something. I crack up at that and I laugh a little too hard at the pun. He must've really screwed with my mind.

"I won't mess this up and I'll show him and Rob and Mitch that they can trust me." I go back to editing the Black Ops footage I'd filmed while I waited for Jerome, and I plan to watch the two videos Rob had posted this morning while my new video renders and I eat dinner. I need to learn as much as possible about him before I record with him again so I don't fudge everything up. "I guess I have a winter break project after all."

* * *

 **December 12, 2010 at 7 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I jump in surprise, my eyes finally moving away from the vicious animated grasshopper on the flat screen TV. I can't even tell you how grateful I am for any kind of distraction – suffering through the digitally remastered version of _A Bug's Life_ on repeat for two weeks every year reminds me how badly I want to avoid parenthood. None of the kids notice as I slide my phone out of my pocket and check my text messages, and I think I might get away with it without hearing a bombardment of whines about me not watching the best part. I unlock my phone and I see Jerome's fluffy Bacca face in my notifications list.

 _Jay-rome: Don't you worry don't you worry child! Dis Bacca's got your back for you!_

'What is he talking about? Did something happen?' I panic and tab over to YouTube and Facebook to skim through the comments again, but nothing seems to have changed. 'What is he up to this time?'

 _Me: ?_

 _Me: [heart]_

 _Jay-rome: ;)_

 _Me: :D_

'It sounds like someone called in human resources to straighten something out. Ouch.' In moments like these, I am ecstatic to be on his good side because whatever he is plotting is not going to end well for his victim. One does not simply mess with Benja's Back-Up Squad and get away with it. Jerome is like the State Farm of the gaming side of YouTube: he acts as insurance against harassment and bad publicity, and he is _always_ there. All he asks in return is that you back him up and give him the power and cover he needs to carry out any necessary deeds. My problems have become few and far between just because of my association with the Bacca and his reputation. Honestly, I have no clue what I would do without his help, and I have even less of a clue what I would do if I invoked his wrath. Hopefully, I will never have to worry about going to war with the YouTube UN and dealing with the fallout; Machinima's meltdown was awful enough with only a handful of people involved. With an army of over seven hundred thousand loyal subscribers and a massive network of alliances with even bigger YouTubers and several notorious hackers, the Bacca is a serious powerhouse and he could grind someone like me into bonemeal in just a couple of hours.

I briefly consider asking him to clarify, but decide I would be better off without the details. The Bacca is a mysterious creature, and I would rather not know how he manages to keep the sun shining and the game running. Whoever set off his alarm must be stuck to their computer chair from the liters of sweat dripping from their forehead, and they have my sincerest sympathy. He is definitely not the dim-witted sidekick he pretends to be; if anything, Mitch is _his_ sidekick. I lock my phone before I accidentally request to learn the secrets of YouTube's seedy underground, and I thank Notch that Jerome is on our side.

'He is, right?' I mentally scoff at my own paranoia. I know him well enough by now, and his motives are mostly benign, at least if you stay off of his radar and out of his way.

'Wherever Benja is, the Bac follows. As long as I stay on good terms with Mitch, the worst Jerome is wont to do is stare me down and wait for me to blink.' I smile to myself as I think of their amazing bromance and Jerome's endless loyalty to his best friend. 'He would go to the edge of the world and back a thousand times for Mitch. Hell, he goes to the edge of the world and back fifty times for me and I just met him a year ago.'

After wasting a few hundred dollars on gift cards and candy this afternoon to cover birthdays and Hanukkah for twenty-odd people, I could spare a few more for Jerome. I unlock my phone again and troll through for a while, trying to find a suitable present. Soon, a gift-wrapped plush wolf hat and a fifteen dollar Steam card will show up at his P.O. box and he might actually have to leave his house before he has to go back to school in January. In the card, I just type a heart, wondering how long it will take for him to figure out who sent it.

'Probably only a few seconds. Bacs have a nose for this kind of thing.' I start laughing at the Jerome impression embedded in my brain, and the kids start laughing, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**December 13, 2010 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Are you sure you feel alright, honey?" Mom asks quietly, her brown eyes wide in concern as she runs her fingers through my hair again, like I am still a little kid. I do my best to smile as I swat her hand away and try to flatten my hair again, and her face breaks into a mischievous grin. Between her trolling and Dad's genes, I always look like I just rolled out of bed, no matter how hard I try to look presentable. Here I am at a five-star restaurant in a three hundred dollar suit, and my mom is making my hair look like a cheap seventies wig.

"I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me so much." Her smile fades a little and she wraps her arms around me, her glasses going askew as she rests her head on my shoulder.

"I'm your mother – it's my job to worry about you, Robbie. Don't you dare try to take that away from me." We stand there for a moment in silence, an ocean of guilt crashing around my heart as I remember all of the times I hurt her and Dad with my selfishness and stupidity. She jumps when someone's baby wails from a few meters away and she immediately starts laughing. Mom is the only person I know who can argue that taking twelve hyperactive children into a ritzy restaurant for two hours is a reasonable idea. I glance ahead of us in line and see Dad looking back at us pointedly, rolling his eyes in good humor at the fiasco that is about to ensue. "You had better hope your face doesn't stay like that, dear. You know I don't like horror movies."

"It took you almost thirty years to come up with _that_? Jesus!" he snorts as he tries to hold back a smile. "If anything is going to be compared to a horror movie, it's this brilliant idea of yours. This is just the commercial break before the feature." One of the younger kids belts out another ear-piercing scream and Dad and I both crack up as a young couple glares at each of us in turn from their fancy oak bench. Mom is not amused, and she pulls away from me, crossing her arms and pursing her lips as she prepares to go on the defensive.

"Are you saying something?"

"Oh, no. I'm not saying anything. I was just telling Rob how I could go for some popcorn about now."

"That's what I thought you said." She uncrosses her arms and stands next to me again, leaning into my shoulder and intertwining her fingers with mine. Spending time with my parents always makes me feel so loved, yet so unlovable; I don't deserve any of this.

"Just need some snacks for the show," he adds under his breath, knowing that she can still hear him.

"It could have been worse, don't you know. Garrett wanted everyone to go to Dairy Queen for dinner." Dad tries not to laugh but he loses the battle and covers his eyes with his hand as he chuckles.

"Garrett is a six-year-old who thinks ice cream is a type of fruit, Dale. What else did you expect him to pick?" She purses her lips again and he backs down from the challenge, raising his eyebrows and pretending to hide his grin.

"You're a smart one tonight, aren't you?"

"Better than dumb," I add, and she moves away from me in mock disgust.

"Oh, I see how it is. I see _exactly_ how it is."

"What exactly do you see, dear?" Dad asks as his face breaks into his usual wisecrack grin.

"I see two boys who are about to spend the next two hours sitting in the cold car while everyone else eats dinner."

"I saw a McDonald's right around the corner when we pulled into the parking lot. We wouldn't starve and it would be a _hell_ of a lot quieter." She gives him a lofty glare and looks at him from under the bottom rim of her dark purple glasses.

"Now you've taken it too far."

"I think most of these people were taken too far," he replies, crinkling his nose at the smell of one of my great-uncle's cigars farther ahead in line. "Remind me again why we invited half of these people tonight?"

"You already know why." She sends a revolted glare in the old man's direction and she moves next to Dad so she can put her back to the wafting smoke. Although the smell is vile, the burning smoke in my lungs makes the craving to inhale overpowering. This is why I left my dwindling pack of cigarettes at home: to force me to fight the temptation. Between the threats of having to buy the rented suit and of having my ears torn off by outraged parents, the risks of smoking tonight are just too high.

"I forgot why. It looks like you might have forgotten why, too."

"It's only for five more days, then the reunion on the 26th. We can handle it, Darren." Dad sighs and puts his hands in his pockets, deploying his famous puppy dog eyes to try to get out of attending the massive family dinner even while we wait in line for them to arrange our tables. "Don't you look at me like that. We are staying and everyone is going to have a good time, including you." She pokes me in the chest and I jokingly put my hands up in surrender.

"As long as I don't have to sit next to the kids' table this year, everything will be great."

"The kids adore you!"

"Better with the kids than next to Uncle Benny," Dad grumbles, waving a curl of thick white smoke out of his face.

"Hey, I would take a face-full of smoke over a face-full of potatoes," I retort, reliving the shock of being hit in the face with a handful of garlic mashed potatoes last year at some hole-in-the-wall family restaurant. There are few things in this world worse than getting a chunk of salty potato in your eye, then getting mocked by a crowd of giggling kids who claim you're crying.

"Now that's what I call a face peel!" Dad cackles, so proud of his lame pun that he doesn't hear the waitress finally call our party to the long-awaited table. In their defense, it takes a while to push enough tables together to fit forty bitchy adults and their hoard of bratty kids. Mom pulls Dad's hands out of his pockets and holds hands with both of us, trying to form a chain against the stampede of impatient relatives. She can try to insulate us from the most obnoxious members of the family, but I already know how this is going to turn out – it has been exactly the same every year since I was fifteen. I see my third cousin Angela and her daughter speeding toward us and I walk even faster, doing my best to pretend that I didn't see them, with their matching white silk mini-dresses and platinum blonde hair. With any luck at all, I will get a winning spin on this little roulette wheel and snag a seat next to good old Uncle Benny and his pungent cigars.

"Oh, Dale! It's so nice to see you again!" Angela squeals for the tenth year in a row, her identical daughter staring at me like I am an exotic zoo animal. Even the war cries of zombie pigmen are more pleasant than Angela's silicone screeches. Mom tries to force a smile but it looks more like a pained grimace, and Dad is trying to stifle his laughter.

'I think this lady might be even more of a try-hard than Preston, and that is _really_ impressive.'

"You too, dear. How is the home business going?" Mom frantically searches the table for three available seats in the most socially acceptable way possible, but I can tell that all hope has been lost. It took a significant amount of bargaining and bribing to persuade me to come home in time to attend this dinner, and she promised I wouldn't have to play eHarmony with her cousin Angela or Dad's aunt Debra again this year. Next year, even homemade tiramisu won't be payment enough.

"Oh, it is just fabulous! You wouldn't believe how many boxes we sold this year! We might be in the running for the regional award and a big bonus check, too!"

'Since when is selling mail order scented candles and make-up a home business?' Dad's face breaks into the most devious smile I have ever seen, and he strolls to the farthest seat and sits next to his brother to continue their debate about which hockey team is more likely to win the upcoming game. If we had been playing chess, he would have taken all of my pieces except the king. Now I have nowhere to go except the empty seat between Mom and Angela, and sitting in the cold car is beginning to sound like an amazing idea.

"And Robert, it's great to see you again, sweetie! You look so handsome!" I fake a smile, but it probably looks more like the face I make when an angry Creeper is about to blow up a newly-finished base. Angela reaches up and tries to make my hair lay flat, and Mom turns away in chagrin and sits down. It feels like she is petting me like a dog, which just makes me want to mess it up even more. Every family gathering is awkward and embarrassing, and this lady and her kind are the reason why. "What are you doing with yourself these days? You're putting that business degree to good use, aren't you?"

"Yes, it's actually very helpful. Going to UdeM was one of the best decisions I've ever made." I resign myself to the seat and move the chair as far away from Angela and her fake, shell pink fingernails as I possibly can. If I had a choice between eating an overpriced steak here or a stale Pop Tart back at the hotel, I would be preparing my wire hanger right now.

"Where are you working now?"

"I'm still doing YouTube."

"Oh, Robbie! You could do so much better than that and you know it! You could work at a bank or a big company, or you could own your own business! You could make _so_ much money if you would just put yourself out there a little." Her perfectly painted façade is already beginning to crack around the edges and there is a note of desperation in her voice as she realizes that her well-laid plans still will not work, that I still have not changed.

'So would you and your daughter, if you would stop being leeches.'

"It might not pay as well as I thought it would, but it's what I love to do. I make people happy, I make ends meet, and I have a good time. What else really matters?"

"Financial security matters, don't you think? Knowing you will have enough money to pay your rent and your phone bill next month?"

'Like you would know anything about that, right? I pity your ex-husband.' I want to keep this as pleasant as possible to try to preserve the remnants of my damaged reputation with the family, but she just makes everything so damn difficult and painful.

"Personally, I would rather be happy than rich. If worst comes to worst and YouTube doesn't work out, I will try something else. For now, I plan on sticking around."

"But that isn't a _job_ , Rob." She pauses for a second as a lightbulb goes on in her head. "Poor Robbie needs to get a jobbie!" Her childish giggle makes the whole thing even worse and Mom looks like she might spit her mouthful of ice water all over the table.

'Please don't ruin that for me. You took away everything else tonight; please don't take my jokes, too.'

"I have the best coworkers in literally the entire world, and I get to do anything I want whenever I want to. There is _no_ way I would trade all of that freedom for a little extra money." The gears are rotating in her head and I can see her tweaking her plan of action while we place our orders. This was just the standard preamble to a two-hour-long sales pitch that never varies and never improves. As soon as the waiter walks away, she launches into it with fervor.

" _You_ might love it and you might be content with Kraft dinner every night, but will your future wife love it?" I can feel my eyes widen and my face flush bright red, and I know I probably look like a character from The Binding of Isaac right now. "Didn't think about that, huh?"

'No, I've thought about it plenty. Last time I checked, though, my love life was none of your business.'

"Most professional gamers end up with other professional gamers, especially on YouTube. My partner and I would make enough to buy twice as much Kraft dinner," I reply, and her plastic smile stays firmly in place. Angela is going to fight me over this until the end of the world, but as soon as she walks out the door of the restaurant tonight, her opinions mean nothing to me.

"Maybe you could afford to sprinkle a little pepper on top every once in a while to switch it up," Mom snickers next to me as she shakes a glass pepper grinder over an imaginary plate in front of me. Angela looks offended that Mom would take my side over hers and she huffs under her breath. "They make all of those fancy shaped ones now, too. They had cute little Spongebob noodles with flowers last time I went shopping." If there was ever a time to keep a straight face in order to save face, it was now.

"You can't expect to live on poor people's food forever, Rob. You definitely won't be able to get away with it once you get married."

"I get more opportunities and earn more money over time as my channel grows. Logically, it would make more sense to wait longer to get married so we could eat something besides Kraft dinner and corn every night."

"It might seem that way right now but you're in your prime! No one is going to want to marry you in ten, twenty years when you finally make enough money to own a car." I can feel a little spark of indignation beginning to grow in my chest, and I wish I could speak my mind in front of her, just once.

"I own a car right now. I bought it two months ago." A note of sarcasm is seeping into my voice as my mind-to-mouth filter breaks down; I need to keep it under control.

"With cash," Mom adds with the trolly little smile she always gets when she knows she just won an argument. At this point, she seems to be having more fun than Angela is.

"Well, that's very impressive. But don't you want your future wife to be proud of your job and be able to brag about it a little?" A greasy little smirk stretches across her face as she reaches the pinnacle of her perpetual argument. "Who says you have to marry someone who plays video games? I've looked on OurTube a few times and there are hardly any girls who do games for a living. How is that going to work out? The odds don't seem to be in your favor, Rob." The vibrant blush returns and I am speechless. I just want to crawl under the table and hide my face in my hands. This is not a talk I want to be having right now, especially with Angela and her nameless daughter in front of dozens of other relatives, especially the kids.

'The odds are never in my favor, especially tonight. How am I going to get out of this?' Most of my extended family conveniently forgets about my ex-boyfriends whenever the subject of marriage comes up, but Angela is one of the loud mouths I strategically avoided telling altogether. Her judgment isn't even what matters here: right now, I am just not mentally capable of handling the shitstorm that would hit YouTube if the news of me being bisexual travelled online, and she would never stop gossiping about it until it got around. Now that most of my cousins are old enough to be interested in YouTube, they stalk me online and have become some of my most avid fans. Given their insider perspective on my personal life and their omnipresence on my channel, these kids would have a significant amount of power over my career if they learned that information and tried to use it against me. Even though everyone who watches my content seems to suspect it already and I play along most of the time, the official confirmation that I am attracted to guys would still take an enormous chunk out of my subscriber count and my pitiful income, and I simply cannot afford it right now. Before you can be brave, you have to be sensible.

Regardless, nothing on YouTube can be kept a secret forever, especially when others are in on the loop and the rest of the world is interested. At a time when coming out as queer spells the end for many YouTubers' channels, I am in no hurry to test my luck or the Bacca's PR skills. However, I know for a fact that I have at least a few people on my side, no matter what happens when D-Day finally comes. My parents have been there since the beginning, and they were the ones who explained to me what the word 'gay' meant. I will never forget the looks on their faces when I introduced them to my 'husband' in kindergarten, a boy named Andrew who had persuaded me to wear a blue Life Saver gummy on my finger as a wedding ring. Mom insisted that we have a long talk at the kitchen table while Dad leaned in the doorway, crying with laughter as she tried to pry the dried candy off of my stained finger. In all honesty, I think it came as more of a shock to them when I started dating girls on and off in high school. Although Mom firmly believes that it would be healthier if I was 'out and proud,' she respects my decision to keep it quiet until the time is right. With that in mind, I pray that she won't let it slip tonight in front of Megaphone Mouth.

I also have a couple of major allies online in the Bacca and the Nooch Bot. Jerome had figured it out before we actually met, and when the subject finally came up in conversation, all he had to say was "No shit, Sherlock." Without his support, my Minecraft channel never would have made it past fifty thousand subscribers, when a group of homophobic assholes had tried to force my account out of existence with flame comments, DDOSing, and false inappropriate content reports. He is one of my best friends and my biggest ally, and I secretly ship Merome as much as I ship Royza from Fullmetal Alchemist (and I think he might, too). All in all, I trust the Bacca not to let it slip, but if he does, I know he can find a way to make it right again. Getting Nooch's support was even more unexpected and my trust in him is less certain. I still have no idea how Mat figured it out, but he asked me bluntly one night while we were tearing our way through Halo 3 at his house, back when I was still working full-time for Machinima. When I confessed, he just nodded and threw a grenade at an enemy scout, like nothing was ever said. It was never mentioned again but he didn't have the reaction I had expected, either. Nooch is an unpredictable guy.

No one else has been interested enough to ask, or they may have already come to their own conclusions. In any case, I probably wouldn't lie if someone I knew personally asked me directly, but I intentionally avoid any questions relating to my sexuality online where the masses can see it. In the end, I feel like it is really no one else's business and evading the subject entirely prevents any negative backlash while promoting entertaining speculation. Most days, it seems like the comment section on one of my videos has more betting going on than a Las Vegas casino.

'I should cash in on that if I can get out of this.' Angela is a spotless personification of a YouTube comment section – confusing, offensive, relentless, and opinionated. I need to somehow win this argument and keep her out of my hair, both literally and figuratively. My head is swirling with conflicting emotions right now: embarrassment and panic, laughter and affection, the usual sadness. I am paralyzed here and this pause is already several seconds too long. 'What do I do about Angela without outing myself or making a scene? How do I win this argument and get out of dating her soulless little clone?' I scramble desperately for an answer and my mind lands on Mitch, the rising king of the Hunger Games and the pivot point of the new Benja-centric Minecraft craze.

"I like taking my chances," I answer, a statement that would seem out of character to anyone who actually knew me. "One of my friends is dating a gamer girl he met at a PAX convention two years ago, and they ended up being really good friends before they started going out. I want that kind of closeness and understanding with someone before I think about marrying them."

'The premise would be mostly true if Mitch actually knew how to flirt and wasn't so blind. You can't find real love with looks, money, and popularity alone, assuming that love really exists.' Angela seems dissatisfied and takes a sip of her ice water before she replies, the wheels in her head grasping for traction.

"Not everyone can marry their best friend or find their carbon copy, Rob. Someday you're going to see that you're being completely unrealistic."

'Like you?'

"Doing YouTube is hard for both people and it requires a lot of patience. In order for the relationship to work, they would have to understand why I have to spend three days straight in my office talking to myself and playing through a new game without sleeping. They would have to be okay with me spending ten or twelve hours per day recording and editing videos, and the rest of the day handling my social media accounts. More than anything, they would have to understand that I will probably spend more time at conventions or on Skype with my friends than I will with them, and know that it's nothing personal." I cringe at this last clause, knowing that it was the spark that ignited the fuse on three of my last four relationships.

"But why would you do any of that?" I have never wanted to facepalm so badly in my life, but I stop my hand halfway there and pretend to straighten my dark blue tie. "It sounds really selfish to me." Now I am beginning to lose my patience.

"Is it selfish if a businessman has to spend more time working at the office than he does at home to pay the bills?"

"That's a completely different thing. OurTube isn't a real job, Robbie." She smiles again and I can feel the cycle repeating itself. At times like this, I wish I was more like Jerome: he would excuse himself to go to the restroom and just never come back.

'He's braver than you are. He's a Bacca and you're just a derp.' I glance over at Mom and see that she is cruising around on Facebook, liking her sister's selfie with her husband that was taken three minutes ago from the other end of the table. I smile and follow suit, unlocking my phone just as Angela opens her mouth again. 'I hate to be rude, but I hate listening to you even more.' She opens her mouth and closes it a couple of times, looking like a Magikarp who forgot how to use Splash.

"Did you order the choice ribeye or the filet mignon?" she asks, and I ignore her, assuming she must be talking to her stoic, silent daughter. I check my e-mail and see that I have dozens of unread messages from this afternoon, including a new PM from PrestonPlayz.

'Should I open this here? Is this really something I want to deal with right now?' I consider putting my phone away, but it seems to be warding Angela off and the anticipation will ruin the remainder of the evening. 'I guess it would be better to get it out of the way.' I stare at his username in the title of the e-mail for a few more seconds before I decide to click on it, but before I open it, the cream of potato soup arrives and Mom nudges me to put my phone away.

"You wouldn't want a repeat of last year, eh?" she snickers, snatching the pepper grinder out of Dad's hand while he argues with his brother. He glances back at his hand a few seconds later and looks around stupidly until he sees Mom holding it over her bowl. "I swear, the two of you are worse than the kids."

"Isn't this nice, Robert?" Angela asks, leaning over and patting my arm as awkwardly as possible. "It's nice to get out of the house and try different foods every once in a while, right?" If I had any pride left before tonight, it is quickly vanishing before my eyes. I just want to slam my hands on the table and rage quit life right now.

'I miss Procyon and my Pop Tarts.'

* * *

 **December 13, 2010 at 9 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Okay, this is just embarrassing." I chuck the Xbox controller on my bed and bury my face in my hands as the final score of the round pops up on the screen. I'm just making myself look like an idiot in every freaking way imaginable today and I need to stop trying to interact with people. I hit the console's power button with my toe and slump back in my chair and stare at the black screen. "How much worse can this get?" I just got owned by fans in four consecutive rounds on Black Ops and by Mitch in a recorded Minecraft PVP battle that everyone's gonna see. I'm dragging my own reputation right through the mud. It's filthy and I should feel bad.

I do feel bad. I feel horrible. I let out a long groan and slowly turn my head to look at the clock. I DMed Rob six hours ago and he never bothered to reply. He probably thinks I'm a complete frickin' nooblet right now. I really screwed everything up. I spent all day at school thinking about what I was gonna do about the whole Woofless situation and I finally decided that the only way to make sure Jerome wouldn't rek me when I wasn't looking and make sure Rob and I could keep working together would be to try to apologize to Rob even though he doesn't seem like he's pissed at me. But now he hasn't answered my DM and he's sitting on a couch somewhere roasting chestnuts and laughing at my stupidity. This freaking sucks so bad.

"Come on, dude! Just do something! Cuss me out, turn me down, laugh at me, _something_. Don't just leave me hangin' here like this like a jag." The clock moves to 9:48 and I just wanna smack my head on my desk. I can't even focus enough to shoot some noobs on Black Ops because apparently I'm the biggest noob ever. "Maybe I shouldn't've asked him to record again so soon. Maybe he thinks I'm a total creep. I shouldn't've put that in the message. Why do I have to suck so hard?" I check my phone for the umpteenth time in the last hour and wheel back over to the computer to remove the posting date on the Party Games video. If he hates me, the least I can do is make sure that no more evidence of our association with each other gets posted online.

I should've asked him when I should post it before I sent that sappy apology. I feel so stupid right now. In less than a week, I've screwed up my reputation with at least three YouTubers, made myself look like a jerkwad in front of tens of thousands of fans, and lost a chance at a recording partnership with someone with tons of experience on the Tubez. The only worse thing I can do is go troll on Rob's channel and piss off the Bacca. I feel like a little kid lost in a mall. I put my head down on the cool desk and just try to exist for a while without anything in my head. I start to fall asleep, then my phone buzzes and I snap back awake like someone shocked me with a taser.

"Please be him, please be him, please be him…" I scramble to unlock my phone and see that Rob finally answered my DM! But do I wanna read it and find out how much he hates me? I hesitate for a few seconds but I have to know what it says. I shut my eyes and click on the message header, slowly opening one of my eyes to peek at the screen. It feels like I'm holding my final report card of life and I need to know, but I can't stand to know.

 _To: Preston A (prestonplayz_

 _From: Rob Woofless (mrwoofless )_

 _Do not reply directly to this e-mail. If you wish to reply to the sender or report spam, please go to the main website and log in to your account to use the messaging function._

 _Hey,_

 _I just rescheduled the video to be posted tomorrow so it would go out at the same time as your perspective. Notch knows everyone wants a break from the Ancient Aliens Mod Pack Series, anyway. I should be back home late on December 27_ _th_ _if you want to record something in the evening. Anything without viruses is fine; I'm not that picky._

 _Don't worry about it, man. Everyone has bad days every once in a while, and I totally get it. It's all gucci._

 _-Woof_

"Thank the Lord that's over with. Now I just have to worry about finding a map or something neither of us has already done." It feels like gravity just got a thousand times weaker and I have so much energy I have to do something with it. I log back onto my computer and sign into YouTube to start searching through our past videos and fans' comments for map recommendations. This has to be good.

* * *

 **December 13, 2010 at 11 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

'So that was what Jerome was up to when he texted me. I wonder what he said to make Preston freak out like this?' I swipe the screen on my phone to archive the rather lengthy, entirely unnecessary, and seemingly heartfelt apology, but I still have no idea what to think of him as a person. It was obviously his little chat with the Bacca that had prompted him to PM me, yet the content of the message is so at odds with Preston's on-screen personality it seems like it might be genuine.

Although I am always grateful for Jerome's help, going after this newbie YouTuber over such a little thing seems excessive. He might be overconfident and tactless, but he _did_ just start doing collaborations three months ago – there was no real need to scare the kid shitless when he just has no clue what he's doing. Perhaps Preston did something else to earn himself a spot on the infamous Naughty List, and maybe an early Christmas present, too. Regardless, I can sense a modicum of panic in his message and I feel sorry for him, whatever it was that he did. 'Did I actually break TBNRfrags? I guess we will find out tomorrow when the videos go live.' Now it's time to see if he meant what he said, or if a few salty tears from his fans can turn him into obsidian.


	7. Chapter 7

**December 14, 2010 at 10 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"So you're still alive?" Daka asks with a smarmy little grin as I walk downstairs to get something to eat. He's sprawled out on the couch holding his new iPhone and he's pretending to be taking a video of me in my GTA pajama pants. I do a quick dance for him next to the couch and he acts like he's zooming in on my butt like a pervert. If he was any more in love with that phone he'd already have kids with it. "I didn't think I'd see you again until January."

"Shut the fudge up," I mutter as I smile and head to the kitchen. I can see him watching me around the corner with his stupid phone still pointed at me. How can he be five years older than me and still act like such a little kid?

"You would know all about fudge."

"And what the crap is that supposed to mean?" I know he's just messing around and he always says the same stuff to get a reaction out of me, but calling me fat is the quickest way to get on my frickin' nerves. The worst thing about siblings is that they know just where all your buttons are and exactly how to push them but they never get in trouble for any of it.

"I don't know. Maybe you should go ask Ethel M's. They want their store back."

"You're just jealous because you have no taste in food, D." I start digging through the fridge and the pantry to find enough stuff to get me through until dinner and my day is made when I find the last bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Those things are the shizz.

"That doesn't mean you have to have a taste of everything, bro."

"I don't taste everything. _I_ don't eat cat food."

"No, everyone else eats cat food because there's nothing else left to eat." He's standing right behind me at the counter now but I ignore him and start looking through the freezer to see if there're any frozen waffles left. Premade, toastable, near-unburnable waffles have to be the greatest thing ever created. I'm not a bad cook but I'm just too frickin' lazy to make them from scratch most of the time, especially when Daka's around to tell me what a good wife I'll make someday. "Are you gonna leave us anything this time?"

"Are you gonna go to work sometime?" I grab the box of apple cinnamon Eggos and turn around to look at him and his fancy-schmancy uniform.

"Are you gonna work sometime?" I swear, if he was any more envious of me and the money I make from my YouTube channels, his precious Navy garb would be green like a seasick leprechaun.

"I was working last night until four in the morning."

"Running in circles on COD isn't working or working out. You should try it sometime."

"You just don't like packing sandwiches for lunch when your little brother can afford to buy take-out for the whole family." He raises his eyebrows and I know I got him. We stay silent for a minute while I cook my waffles in the bright red toaster.

"Six? Are you gonna work that off, bro, or are you just gonna buy a bigger chair?" That one really hurts. He's starting to piss me off now and I can feel my face getting hot.

"Naw, D. I just stay in bed all day. No rules, no restrictions – just freedom."

"That's a great way to get a girlfriend. Chillin' in bed all day with your pants off, talking up twelve-year-old boys on your headset, eating your feelings… You realize when they say you're 'rolling in dough' they don't mean actual dough, right?" He's getting to me and I hate it. I'm not witty like him and he just makes me wanna deck him sometimes.

"That's cute. How would you even know what that saying means, Dak?"

"Personal experience. You have some right here," he walks over and pokes me in the stomach, "and here." He pokes both of my cheeks and makes my face puff out, and we just stand there and stare at each other for a few seconds with his fingers still pushing in my cheeks. I slap his hands away and pretend to turn back to the toaster, then I swing around and jump on his back when he starts to walk away.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me!" I lock my arms around his neck and drag him down backwards so he's level with me, which must look really pathetic on his end because he's like six inches taller than me. His perfect little uniform hat falls off on the floor and I hope it gets toast crumbs and cat hair all over it. "Guess what, Prissy Pressy. I heard you sweet talking your boyfriend in your room the other day. Does he like 'em soft and doughy?" We struggle for a minute and he slams me back into the fridge but I don't care. He isn't getting away with it this time.

"You're a liar!"

"Yeah, right. Talkin' about how hot he thinks you are and how handsome he is? When's your first date?" I tighten my headlock and he elbows me in the gut but I don't even feel it. I'm seeing red right now and I'm a whole new level of pissed. He can get away with calling me fat sometimes but there's no way in heck he's getting away with calling me fat _and_ gay.

"Your funeral!" He gives a muffled laugh and the tussle continues until I hear someone else coming downstairs. Mom stops halfway down and stares at us and she doesn't look impressed.

"Watch the temper, Preston. Let him go." I hesitate for a second before I move away from him and I smirk as I watch him pluck cat hair off his precious hat. His face has to be just as red as mine is, but his would be purple if Mom hadn't shown up to save his butt again. "What started all this?"

"Preston started eating the house again." She just glares at him for a second before she looks at me.

"I came down to get breakfast and he called me fat and doughy." I can tell she's trying not to smile because she's not supposed to find it funny but all three of us start laughing at the same time.

"Okay, so this is what's gonna happen. _You're_ gonna stop telling Preston he's fat, and _you're_ gonna stop trying to beat your brothers up. Get it, got it, good. Now you get to work before they make you stay late again." She points Daka to the garage before she heads over to the front door to grab her purse and keys and slip her shoes on. "Hurry up, Caleb! I've waited long enough for you this morning!" Caleb slowly makes his way down the stairs to join her on her errand-running, and I can see the lump of his Nintendo DS in the pocket of his jeans. At least one of them takes after their best older brother.

"Do you need me to do anything today?" I ask as I grab my paper plate of now cold waffles and fold one in half and start eating. She glances at the food in my hand and at my face before she rolls her eyes again and smiles.

"No, just clean up your mess. Your room is starting to smell like a trash can so make sure you do something to get rid of the stench."

"Will do. Have fun." Caleb just glares at me as he puts his sneakers on and shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the DS.

"Stay out of trouble, Pressy," she calls as she locks the front door behind her. I nod and go back to the kitchen to grab my pop and my Doritos before I go upstairs to check on my YouTube channels. I had a ton of uploads go up early this morning and I can't wait to see how my first real collab with Rob went. Working with me probably didn't do him a ton of good, but his channel is three times the size of mine and I'm hoping to get a chunk of new subs from our first good video together. I check my e-mail to see if I got any DMs from anyone but it's all good. Nothing from Rob and nothing from the Bacca or Mitch. I check my subscriptions feed and finish my food while I watch the newest part of Rob's Ancient Aliens Series (which is freakin' epic. I'm totally stealing the idea from him and doing this series over the summer or something). My main channel had a pretty slow day and only gained a couple hundred subs yesterday, but almost all the comments on those two videos are either people having fangasms over the video or people recommending different gear combinations for the next run. Just an average day there.

"Now for the moment of truth." I fold my plate up and toss it in the trash can and switch over to my Minecraft channel to see what's up over there. I check my channel stats and cross my fingers for a nice boost from Mitch and Rob… But something doesn't seem right. Yesterday I had ninety-one thousand subs but I'm back down to eighty-seven thousand overnight. "What the heck happened here? Where did four thousand subs go? What did I do?" A fresh flame of panic is growing in my lungs and it feels like my whole body's on fire. I screwed something up real bad to lose two weeks' worth of subs in less than a day, plus however many I earned from my new collabs with Mitch and Rob.

Did I piss Jerome off? Is it gonna keep getting worse? What do I do? How do I make it stop? I go through the comments and ratings on my video with Mitch and everything's great. I skim through the stuff on the new solo Bridges game that got posted this morning and everything still looks good. That just leaves the Party Games video with Rob.

"Fuck." I never cuss but I think this situation seriously deserves it. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as I click on the video title because I really, really don't wanna see what happened here. Whatever went down on this vid was bad enough to take a big bite right out of my channel and I don't wanna face it. But I have to do something before the Bacca sees it and calls in SWAT to murk me. The actual rating bar isn't too bad with about a thousand likes and a little over a hundred dislikes. I mean, it isn't good but it could be worse. Whatever it is that screwed me over must be lurking down in the comments. I take a deep breath and slowly scroll down until I can only see the first comment.

' _i love u preston! u inspired me to make my own youtube channel and i already hav 50 subs! u are my favorite youtuber and i hope to meet u in person someday! keep making cool videos!_ ' I don't know if I'm annoyed or thankful that this was the comment I landed on but it makes me not wanna read any more. I'm dreading this so bad right now.

"Okay, Preston. Just a little more. You need to find out what's going on so you can take care of it. You can't just run away from problems like this, gosh darnit." I inch down to the next comment but it's just crap posted by a stupid spam bot. I hate those things more than ever now. When the third comment crawls into view, ish starts going down:

' _i knew it! i told everyone you were a fagget the first time i saw your videos! you should change you name to tbnrfags and quit youtube_ '

' _GAY!_ '

' _go kill urself fag_ '

' _I used to like you before you started recording with all the gay Minecraft guys. Unsubbed!_ '

' _It was funny when you made fun of him with bajan last time but you cant flirt with ron and put it on your channel. WTF!_ '

' _why would u record with a gay guy? r u dating him?_ '

' _are you gay Preston?_ '

' _Is he your boyfriend?_ '

' _I ship TBNRless! :D_ '

"What the heck, guys? Can't you take a freakin' joke?" I've had fans jokingly ship me with other YouTubers or video game characters before, but they seem like they're taking it seriously this time. There're no comments about the actual video – everyone's either calling me a fag or asking if Rob's my boyfriend. They don't get that we're just kidding around and there're tons of people saying they hate me or they support our relationship. "What relationship? There _is_ no relationship! Come on!" I scroll through a couple more comments but they're almost all the same. I land on one that's kinda different, but not really:

' _Ive been watching MrWoofless since before he started MC and Im glad he found someone who would be nicer to him than Vanessa. Ill start watching your channel too! #subbed_ '

"Who do you think you are? Jerome?" The Bacca must be seeing all this and laughing his butt off right now. He probably knew this was coming as soon as I said I'd recorded with Rob again and he's been waiting to see what I'd do. I put my head down on the desk and just try to calm down before I lose it. This is so stressful and humiliating and I don't have a single freaking clue what I'm supposed to do about it. I can't just go crying to Jerome to give me the answers or he'll look down on me more than he already does. "I wonder what Rob thinks about all this… He's probably used to it by now." I sit there for another few seconds before it sinks in.

Of course. Rob! I open a new window and go over to his channel to scroll through the comments on his version of the video. I expect to see the same stuff as I had on my channel, but his video got a higher rating and almost no hate comments. Actually, almost all his comments were cutesy and had hearts all through them and most of them were saying how much they shipped us together. Instead of having #TBNRfags or another insult on every comment, everyone's screaming #Poofless and asking for pictures on his channel.

"What the crap, Rob? How did this happen?" I keep scrolling and I stop and stare at a badly spelled chain story about our first date. They're already writing fan fictions about this relationship that never happened. I tab back over to the comments on my video and I feel like I just got unintentionally ROFLstomped by Rob and his ship-crazy fans. I have the most bipolar comment war ever on my video and his is full of hearts and smiles and freakin' flowers!

What do I do? I need to keep working with Rob but this Poofless thing is gonna screw both of my channels over once the news spreads. What can I do to make all this go away without pissing Rob off? Beyond just being afraid of ticking off the Bacca, I really don't wanna mess up my ties with Rob and lose out on the chance to work with him. And I guess I can't deny that I kinda want to be his friend. Like the Bacca said, I could use a few more allies and this would be a good place to start.

"Who knew flowers could be so terrifying?" I put my chin down on my arm and refresh the comments on our videos a few times but every time it's just more of the same thing. I'm holding out the hope that Rob'll do something to control his subs but he's probably too busy to actually deal with this right now. I stay there for quite a while and I think about just leaving it be and working on something else for a while when the troops start moving on Rob's channel:

' _Everyone might not like TBNRFRAGS or his videos but he doesn't deserve all the hate he's getting on his channel so if you support #Poofless you have to support Perston AND Woofless! [heart]_ ' The comment instantly gets upvoted and soon it's at the top of Rob's comment section with dozens of replies saying they'll see each other on my channel.

"Oh, no. Oh, no!" I tab back over to my channel and I can see it's already starting. I can feel my mouth hanging open and I'm so glad I don't have facecam on right now. There're hearts and emojis and hashtags and supportive coming out comments everywhere. There's so much Poofless I think I might actually know what a 'Poofless' is now. Some of the big hate comments are getting reported so often they're being removed from view on the comment feed and I almost feel grateful, but not really. I can deal with a little hate and some trolling, but how the frick do I deal with _this_? "If Daka sees this I'm gonna die from embarrassment. This is so bad." But as soon as I say that, it just has to get worse. A new comment gets posted on my video and it gets so many likes that it soars up out of the reach of the Poofless army for a few minutes.

' _lets go send all the fanboy faggots back were they came from! stay on your own channel!_ '

"Crap. Don't do this to me, guys! Come on!" I go back to Rob's video and I watch his comment section start to fill up with the hate spam from my channel and the dislikes grow from fifteen to seventy in seconds. "Crap. What do I do, what do I do?" I tab back over to my video one last time and start typing.

* * *

 **December 14, 2010 at 11 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

'This is going to take a while to find equilibrium if he doesn't do something.' The kids are laughing as Garrett takes his turn playing Just Dance on my ancient Wii, and I look up from my phone in time to see him try to breakdance for bonus points. I turn back to the comment war between mine and Preston's channels, waiting for him to either step in or log out. His channel main page states that he is still online, but his most recent comment was posted last night after I messaged him. 'What is he going to do? What he does now is going to determine a hell of a lot in the future.'

"Robbie, Robbie! Did you see what I did?" Garrett yells as he tries to dance to 'Funky Town,' standing on his toes to pretend that he has platform shoes on like the silhouetted woman on the screen.

"Yeah, that was really cool. I don't think I could do that."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I would just wipe out and break the TV." The kids giggle and enact what they think I would look like if I tried dancing. I ignore them and focus on Preston's video again, watching a couple of my long-time fans battle it out with a troll who doesn't quite understand how to use a keyboard. Regardless of the outcome of this little battle, neither of our channels will ultimately suffer, but it will give me a clear gauge of Preston's character. It's really a harmless experiment – as long as he doesn't openly attack me or intentionally throw me under the bus. I check to see if he has logged out, but his status has not changed.

'Are you trying to wait me out? You won't win.' I switch back to my video and see that the number of dislikes is growing exponentially. Although Preston's ex-fans think disliking and flaming my video will hurt me, all they are doing is generating more ad revenue for me by playing the video. I got rid of all of my fair weather fans a long time ago; someday Preston might thank me for this, pass or fail. If anything, I feel guilty for having to play my fans this way: they are legitimately defending me to the point that they now support a YouTuber they bitched about incessantly less than a week ago. 'I promise I will make it up to all of you.' I watch the kids spaz out through another bad eighties song before I check Preston's profile again and see that he finally stepped up to the challenge:

' _I know this video is different from most of the stuff I post on my channels but there's no reason to be so DARUDE about it! You can say what you want about me but leave MrWoofless out of this. If you have a problem with the videos we do together then don't watch them! No true fan of mine would attack one of my friends and if you aren't grown up enough to handle a couple jokes we don't want you here._ ' I read through it a few times before I'm satisfied with his response.

' 'Friend,' huh? Maybe this could work out after all. I should help him clean up the mess.' I return to my own video and type out my response:

' _Thank you to everyone who has a sense of humor and didn't have a meltdown about my videos with PrestonPlayz. Everyone has their own brand of humor, and sometimes not everyone gets the joke. We're going to continue to work together, so if you don't like his videos, don't watch them and don't subscribe to his channels. Thanks again to everyone who kept their cool over the last week. [heart]_ ' I can't help but smile as my fans like my comment and begin clearing out all of the negative crap Preston's anti-fanboys had posted. I scroll through the replies to my comment and I am surprised to see that he has responded with a heart emoji, which had already garnered dozens of likes and another flood of #Poofless comments. I return the favor on his video and earn a similar response from his viewers.

* * *

 **December 14, 2010 at 10 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I slump back in my chair and let all the air out of my lungs. I feel like I just ran two miles and I'm exhausted. I refresh my video and check the comments again and I see that Rob replied to my comment with a heart emoji surrounded by little blue flowers. It's so cheesy and such a typical Rob thing to do that I start laughing hysterically. And with laughing comes hiccups. I sound like I'm having a seizure or something but I can't stop, and it hurts but it's just too dang funny for no reason. When Dad said I'd have an ulcer by the time I turned twenty this must be what he was talking about. I laugh until my sides are killing me and I have tears streaming down my face. When I finally pull myself together, I see there's a new DM notification at the top of the screen and I can feel my stomach sink back down to the floor. After this whole Woofless situation I swear I'm gonna need a shrink. I slowly move my cursor over to it and click, and when I see it's from Rob I can't tell if I'm relieved or terrified.

"Are we good now, dude? Please tell me we're good now."

' _Hey,_

 _I'm sorry about the little civil war on your video – it happens every time I record with someone new. Apparently I'm an acquired taste or something…? Everyone will get over it in a couple of days. Anyway, do you still want to record together on the 27_ _th_ _?_

 _Sorry for all of the trouble this caused._

 _-Rob_ '

"Why's he apologizing to me? He crayfish!"

* * *

 **December 14, 2010 at 11 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

' _Yeah of course! I'm still looking for a good map or something to do so I'll let you know. Thanks again for working with me and I'll see your handsome face in a couple weeks. Merry Christmas!_

 _~Perston_ '

'Did he just misspell his own name?' I smile in spite of myself and reply with another heart emoji. He seems like he might be trustworthy, but then again, only time will tell. With any luck, he will at least be more dependable than his fan base. I suffer through the kids' rendition of 'Oops, I Did It Again' on Sing Star and run through all of my interactions with Preston again in my head. The last thing I need right now is someone else to avoid and lie to while I try to live out of cheap motels and vending machines, but the subscribers and views I will gain from my partnership with him might mean the difference between a week in a toasty warm room and a week in a freezing cold car. I zone out for a while and watch the kids jump around like maniacs, hoping I made the right decision to trust TBNRfrags. I have no idea how much time passes, but eventually my phone vibrates and brings me out of my reverie. I unlock it and Jerome's chibi Bacca face is grinning up at me, innocuous and sweet.

 _Jay-rome: Nicely played. 10/10_

 _Me: ;)_

'Big Brother was watching from the sidelines the whole time. I wonder how much of this he orchestrated.' Under its shiny, smiling, colorful surface, YouTube is a much darker, more ruthless world that is slowly being divided into factions where only Spencer's fittest will survive to see another year. Jerome is stealthily working around the clock to recruit new members to his corner, for better or for worse. Although I have little evidence and few reasons to doubt the Bacca's motives, after my little skirmish with Preston I can't help but feel used.

* * *

 **Sometimes even the best laid plans fail. There is a short chapter that should have been written between chapters seven and eight, but it was added after its point in the plotline had already passed. It isn't necessary to read it to follow the main plotline, but if you want to read it, it is called "Senpai" and it is published in "Bonus Hearts."**


	8. Chapter 8

**March 17, 2011 at 8 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

' _When are you going to be on Skype again?_ ' I send the text to Preston and, within thirty seconds of the message being sent, his Skype ringtone begins playing through my headphones. Even after three months of working with him, I still find his phone ninja skills amusing and sort of endearing. He is so consistent and predictable that, if he didn't answer my message within fifteen minutes, I would be worried for his safety.

"What took you so long to answer? Jeez, Rob-a-Dob-Flob! I coulda done a parkour map by now!" I can just see him sitting there with that smartass, toothy grin of his, even though our call is audio-only. Tonight we plan to do off-camera grinding and mining for our relatively new, heavily modded survival series. I can't speak for him, but I am here less for the diamonds and more for the distraction. PAX South begins the day after tomorrow, and I am churning out videos and finishing projects to burn some time and energy before my flight to San Antonio at six in the morning. Honestly, I am thrilled to be able to go at all, but the fact that I get to meet up with the majority of my friends for three days at a massive video game convention makes it the highlight of the entire year. Tomorrow will also be the first time I meet Preston in person, and the first time he sees what I actually look like. Even though I have moved into a new apartment and I no longer have to hide my living situation, it seemed wiser to refrain from revealing my face until the lighting was less horrific and I didn't look like a mass murderer. However, now that the moment is only hours away, the whole plot is beginning to look like an enormous mistake.

'So many things could go wrong, and I might end up having to avoid him for the entire convention. I am not the brightest bulb in the chandelier this year.'

"Okay, not everyone has reflexes like you, Pearston. Some people are actually human." I join the server and Preston is standing on the roof of our 'house,' staring at me and crouching as if he is preparing to pounce on my head.

"What are you tryin' to say, hmm? Are you sayin' I'm not human?"

"I'm not really sure what you are, but last time I checked humans don't have lava for skin."

"We don't talk about that, remember? Never speak of that day to me!"

"Are you talking about your little 'Accident'? You never did tell me the whole story."

"Because you don't need to know, you silly pleb. That's personal stuff." He leaps off of the roof and begins checking all of the farms we set up last time, and I begin my valiant effort to make a decent house out of the grassy hill he arbitrarily chose as our base. We just recorded the seventh episode of this series and our base still does not have a door.

"I get that you were darude to someone in the Nether and pissed them off. I get that part. What I don't understand is how you got out of the Nether and how you can live in the overworld." He walks up behind me and punches me several times before he rustles through the chests, emptying his inventory for his leg of the mining expedition.

"You stay here in the chunk and AFK while you OCD over the house, 'kay? Your diamond luck is poop, anyway."

"Roger that, Colonel Plebston. There's no need to remind me how jobless I am!"

"How's that fair? I get reminded how jobless you are every time I record with you." He punches me a couple more times before he runs out of the hovel and into the woods, looking like something horrid out of a Stephen King movie as he sprint jumps into the distance.

"I get reminded of how heartless you are every time I record with _you_." I craft an iron shovel and begin hollowing out the hillside to make room for more than just a crafting bench and chests.

'This is what you get for allowing TBNRplebs to start a new series without you. You live in a three-by-four dirt shack for a week with copious Creepers and zealous zombies dropping by for dinner every night.'

"You know I fan, bby. Love me."

"I don't think I would if I could, and I am pretty sure I can't. I think it would physically kill me if I got close enough to you to love you." He snickers, making his trademark hissing noise that sounds eerily like an angry Creeper. I briefly wonder if that sound was what pushed him to choose his Minecraft skin.

"I make you fire resist pots and you love me long time."

"Perhaps, or I could just trap you back in the Nether when you go to get the ingredients. That would be the smart thing to do."

"You have a dumb face," he retorts with his fake hurt voice, and I can imagine him making a pouty face like a little kid.

"You never answered my question, though. How did you get out of the Nether and how can you live here?"

"Because your question is dumb like your face! Some pleb called Rob left a Nether portal open in his house because he don't have no job and I used it to try to go back home after 'The Accident' but I couldn't find my house. So now I'm stuck following him around in all the worlds of Minecraft until I find where I came from. Happy?"

"All that is very touching and cute, but I still have no clue how you can live outside of the Nether and… swim in water without turning into obsidian or cobblestone. That makes absolutely no sense." I replace the back wall of the house with birch wood planks and decide to leave some of the storage chests on this floor of the house. Even though it looks awful, I know Preston well enough to recognize that he will place them back here, anyway. He might be even more of a packrat than I am, and that is by no means a compliment.

"You make pots to walk through lava and I make pots to walk through water. It's simple maths, dude."

"You make fire resistance potions, too."

"Just shut the front door."

"I would if we had one!"

"Then go make one! What the fudge are you doing over there that's more important than a freakin' front door?"

"Well, right now I'm still trying to build something worth protecting with a front door because some people (and I'm not naming names here) enjoy living in actual buildings made out of materials other than dirt and chests." I place my last wooden plank and venture outside to cut down some more trees around the property, both for the wood and for the work space. When Preston decides he wants to battle with redstone, he goes all-out and recreates huge automatic farms for everything imaginable.

"Now don't you start in on my house again. Back in the days of the pioneers…" He pauses his rant for a few seconds and I begin wondering if this mining expedition is about to turn into a race to rescue his gear.

"Yes, Professor Perston?"

"I hear the song of my people."

"Did you find plebs or cactuses?"

"It's 'cacti,' you jobless doodle banger. And the only pleb in Minecraft is you and you certainly aren't my kind of people."

"Our late night calls and passionate make-out sessions would say otherwise."

"That was only a couple times, Robert, and I told you never to mention it or it wouldn't happen again. What goes down when the Creepers come out is our little secret." Although I love joking around with him, I sincerely hope that his parents never walk in on one of our Skype calls; my sense of humor could land me in some very deep shit with the law. "Hey there, hot and spicy. You wanna make some beautiful diamond babies tonight?"

"Whoa, just whoa. Preston, I think this might be moving a little too fast. You know I think you're very handsome and fiery in your fancy suit, but I feel like we just met. We need to take a step back for a moment and look at our F3. I mean, are we even at the same y-level? I'm not at diamond level yet but it feels like you're just trying to strip mine my heart. It hurts, man." He starts cackling again and the sound of him laughing always makes me crack up, too. Under the layers of Black Ops obsession and feigned toughness, he is really just a big fluffy ball of hysterical laughter and bad ideas. Preston is adorable in all the wrong ways, and honestly, this is what scares me most about meeting him tomorrow.

"Just leave me alone and let me cuddle with this handsome lava for a while, 'kay?"

"We have been through this about a hundred times. I know your situation is a little different and there is nothing wrong with that, but if you snuggle with something that you can have a conversation with, I consider that cheating."

"B-but bby, you know I love you! This is just for a little while until I'm out of the cave then… Oh, fudge me."

"What did you do now?"

"Robbie, now you know how much I love you, right? You remember all the good times we've had? All those times you asked me to come over to your house and hold you all through the night because you were scared?"

"What did you do, Preston? The longer you wait to tell me, the angrier I'm going to get."

"We uh… I accidentally made diamonds. With the lava." I smack my hand on the desk and sigh dramatically, trying to keep a straight face. None of this is even being recorded, but it always seems to happen, anyway.

"How could you do this to me again? How many is it this time, Preston?" He pauses and I can imagine him sitting there with his face in his hands, acting it out as if the camera is trained on him.

"Six. It's six, Rob. I… I'm so sorry. I know I said it would never happen again but-"

"You know what? No. No, I refuse to do this again. Seventeen times was enough, and the eighteenth time is just too much. I'm done. I'm done. I'm _done_." I disconnect from the server and we just sit there in silence for a few seconds, the game all but forgotten.

"Robbie? Please come back. I'm so sorry," he whimpers as pitifully as he can, and I wonder how successful he is at getting his way with his parents – his acting skills are on point. "I love you so much. Please come back, baby." I sigh again and give another lengthy pause.

"Fine, I love you, too. I just want you to know that if this happens again, I _will_ leave you and you can live in a disgusting dirt hut right next to your precious lava." I reconnect to the server and cut down a few more trees before I return to our pitiful skeleton of a house, reaching the doorway only seconds before sundown. I immediately craft a birch door to match the rest of the house and put it in place, hoping to stop both the mobs and his nagging.

"I promise it won't happen again, Robbie. But there's something we need to talk about before I come home. Can we talk?" I slowly release another sigh and start nodding before I realize that no one can see me.

"Sure, we should talk. What else did you do, Preston?"

"Well, you see… I didn't have six diamonds with my last lava lover. It was actually seven." He pauses and we sit in silence for a few seconds before he continues. "And while you were gone I got kinda lonely and…"

"You didn't. Please tell me you didn't."

"I just felt so alone and you were gone and I didn't know what to fudging do! So I met this nice, hot stream of lava at the end of a ravine and we kinda hit it off and… We had four diamonds before she said I had to move on." Silence again and it seems like Preston is having a hard time keeping himself from laughing.

"You should come home now. I don't know how everything will pan out in the future, but we will make it work. Just come home." I begin clearing out a basement room to put additional storage chests and cases to show off our collection of rare mod items, hoping with every fiber of my being that he can restrain himself and not detonate or scorch the wooden house.

'I should have thought about who I was working with before I started building. If only there was a way to make our stacks of cobblestone look decent without wasting diamonds and levels, or a metric shit ton of coal. I should check out the Wiki while he trolls around, and fix the house while he AFK hosts tonight.'

"You're just too good to me," he coos and I can hear him spamming the keyboard and clicking furiously as he fights off hoards of mobs on his way back to the base. Less than a minute later, the door clicks open and his vacuous black eyes are staring down at me from the top of the ladder. "You're still working on the dumb house? You really _are_ in slow mo today, Robert. At this rate, I won't even get to see your handsome face tomorrow because you'll still be fabulizing this freakin' house! Maybe you should lay off the maple syrup for a while." He turns around and begins shuffling around in the chests before he goes back outside to check on the farms again.

"Well, if you had just let me host the server like I asked to in the beginning, all of this would have already been done and we could both be spelunking in gorgeous caves and making out with lovely lava, but no! You had to be the special one and make me stay at home while you're grinding out diamonds with your hot little friends! You hurt my soul, Preston."

"I won't lie: you make a good housewife. That's why you're my favorite." I can hear the heart emoji at the end of his sentence and my face breaks into a cheesy grin. If Preston actually was a cactus, he would be the most kawaii fucking chibi cactus that ever existed. I feel so creepy and disgusting for thinking a sixteen-year-old is cute, and I would certainly never act on my feelings, but none of that changes how I feel. However, this goes way beyond the usual "he loves me, he loves me not" debacle – it is both socially unacceptable and illegal for me to feel this way.

'Not to mention the fact that he has zero interest in me, like the vast majority of guys I am attracted to. We were just joking around, plus we haven't met in real life and he has no clue what I look like. When he sees how old and plain I am, he might not even want to be friends anymore.' More than anything, feeling this way about him just flat out pisses me off. 'Am I really so desperate for someone to care about me that I crush on underage guys who are ten years younger than me? I need some serious help.' I turn back to the game and leave my self-berating for later.

"You have obviously never had my cooking if I am your favorite wife. My skills are limited to store-bought bagels, powdered waffles, Kraft dinner, take-out, and frozen meals. Anything else looks and smells like a bonfire, slash roadkill." Preston hisses like a Creeper again while he runs his redstone contraptions outside, his snickering sounding like a stream of steam powering the pistons.

"Okay, if that's the kind of filth they're feeding you up there in Canadia the first thing we're gonna do tomorrow is find you some real Southern food. You won't wanna go home after you eat some decent meals."

"In that case, I should bring my own food because there is no way in hell I would stay trapped down there with you."

"We'll just see about that tomorrow, you pleb. I could steal your passport and _make_ you come back home with me, then I'd make you get me food and clean the house and edit my videos while I'm gone. And maybe then I'll love you."

"Okay, no. First of all, that sounds like my own personal level of hell. Second of all, your house is undoubtedly cleaner than my apartment, so you have no idea what you are talking about. Third of all, a wife is not the same thing as a house elf. My name is Rob, not Dobby." He gives a loud bark of laughter and I know I just handed him some more ammo to use against me.

"Robbie is a good house elf!" he shrieks in a voice so high it sounds almost supersonic. We both bust out laughing again, and I consider what his family must think when they hear him making these voices and saying these things when they walk past his room. I know Mitch's parents avoid his recording room like the plague, and it seems like Preston's family takes a similar approach; they have yet to appear during a call, but it would be hard not to hear him most of the time. "Okay, let's be serious for five seconds. How the frick am I supposed to find you tomorrow? Can't you just give me a clue or a picture or something? Just one little hint?"

"Nah, bro. That would take all of the fun out of it. My flight is scheduled to land two hours before yours, so I should be able to grab my bag from claims and meet you at your gate. Even _you_ won't be able to miss me." I finish up the inside of the house and begin sorting through our mass of items, crafting signs and placing chests as I go.

"Not sure what to think about that. Just don't get kicked out or somethin', 'kay?" He sounds annoyed and somewhat nervous, and I almost give in and switch on my webcam to calm him down.

'I do sound like a creep, but it's too late for that. I look like a sixty-year-old pervert with the lighting in this room, and giving in now would only make his reaction a thousand times worse. It was never a choice to begin with.'

"I promise I will behave. Just look for a guy in a blue hoodie holding a sign that says 'Plebston.' Are you renting a car or are you just going to use taxis?"

"I'm taking a taxi to the hotel and walking to the convention hall. My pockets aren't that deep, dawg. You're staying at the place on Filmore Street, too, aren't you? We could just split the taxi and it'll be even cheaper." I am so concentrated on sorting through all of our useless crap that I jump out of my chair when he runs up behind me and starts punching me again. "For gosh sakes, Rob! Leave the freakin' house be and come help me find some diamonds or titanium or platinum or something! Jeebus you're slow!" The lava mob scurries back outside and I trade my stack of birch stairs for my worn-out iron gear before I follow him back outside.

"Jeez, I'm going! Robbie was only doing what master told him to do!" I screech and he chuckles as he runs back into the dark woods.

"Hurry up, you pleb. I finally get you a job and you don't even wanna do it!"

"It might be because all the jobs you find suck."

"That's what she said," he whispers conspiratorially as I follow him back into his beloved cave system, hoping to waste a few more hours mining and building before I crawl into my bed and pretend to try to sleep.

* * *

 **March 18, 2011 at 1 PM, San Antonio, TX: Rob**

The intercom announces the arrival of Flight 277 at Gate A6 and I drain the rest of my iced coffee. I save the video I was editing and begin closing the programs, carefully running my hand over Procyon's keyboard before I put the computer to sleep and gingerly stuff it into my bag. I riffle through the stack of papers in the leather-bound legal pad in the back of my backpack and pull out a color print-out of the head of my Minecraft skin, the black of the eyes meticulously removed with a box cutter at four in the morning. My mind comes up with the strangest ideas after a night of no sleep and no company, and Preston is either going to find this hilarious or disturbing. With one final glance at my seat in the airport café, I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and walk over to Preston's gate, picking a spot along the wall and watching the terminal connect to the side of his plane.

'Here goes nothing.' When the first passengers begin filing into the airport, I hold the paper up to my face and look through the eye holes, searching for him amongst the crowd of older businessmen gawking at me as they skirt by. More than half of the plane has passed by when I see an irritated stewardess attempting to escort a pissed off Preston. He is easy to spot, wearing his omnipresent red athletic jacket with a fluorescent orange ID tag swinging from his neck like a dog tag. 'Shit, he never told me he was flying alone. He probably thinks he is about to walk into the open arms of some creepy ass pedophile who wants to share a taxi with him back to his hotel. I did _not_ think this all the way through, per usual.' He looks around, ignoring the heavily made-up woman giving him directions to the baggage claim he clearly does not need to visit. He scans the area again before his eyes land on me, and he hurries over to me as if I would be able to dismiss his tour guide. He stops about two meters away and just looks at me expectantly, the expression on his face completely unreadable.

"Hey there, Pearston. Fancy seeing you here, eh?" He continues staring at me, his dark brown eyes making him look perpetually pissed off, almost shark-like. I peek over the top of the paper and a look of recognition registers in his eyes, but the rest of his face does not change. "What did you do to earn that warning label?" I try to joke with him, but I sound nervous even to myself. I awkwardly lower the paper from the rest of my face and my hand falls down to my side, his eyes never leaving mine. A long moment passes before Preston drops his bag to the floor and runs over to me, nearly tackling me to the ground from the force of the hug. I tentatively put my arms around his shoulders and he latches onto my ribcage like a vice grip, his head buried in my shoulder and his fingers clutching at the back of my shirt.

'Well, this was certainly unexpected. What brought all of this on?'

"I'm glad to see you, too, but I think you might be slowly killing me. Do you have all of your stuff?" He ignores me and snuggles into the side of my neck like a dog, inhaling a huge whiff of my cologne while I look on in fascination. My face has to be even redder than his jacket and I honestly have no inkling of what to do. "Perston, people are starting to stare."

"I don't give a single fudge. I found my Rob-a-Dob-Flob and they can just go frick themselves," he mutters, tightening his grip around my waist and lifting me completely off of the floor. I feel like a ragdoll and I start laughing, first uncertainly, then in earnest. This is the most absurd in-real-life meeting I have ever had, and we only met about two minutes ago.

'If this is just the beginning, what will the next three days be like?' Although his bone-crushing bear hug is adorable, this is becoming extraordinarily awkward and the stewardess looks more than a little perturbed by Preston's reaction to me.

"You said something about food yesterday, right? What did you have in mind?" He drops me unceremoniously to the ground and stoops down to pick up his carry-on bag while I recover from the fall. "Do you need to do something before you can leave, or…?" The stewardess looks down at her clipboard and references it for a moment before she produces a pen and flips it around for me to read.

"Mrs. Arsement requested that her son have a chaperone during the flight and…"

"I don't need a freakin' chaperone! This is the third year in a row I went to this convention and I've never had any problems. Can you just sign the flippin' paper so we can get the frick outta here and find some real food?"

"What am I signing here? You aren't trying to trick me into signing that marriage paperwork again, are you?" Now Preston blushes bright red and the stewardess seems even more disconcerted. I skim through the lengthy paragraph explaining what the chaperone's duties were before, during, and after the flight, and the form just wants me to acknowledge that he arrived with all limbs intact and that I am over the age of eighteen so I can supervise him. Since she never asked for any of my identification paperwork, this system was clearly just for show. I hand the clipboard back to her and she mouths an exaggerated 'thank you' before hurrying back to the terminal, her black high heels clicking furiously on the tile floor. "So now I am officially stuck with you. What did I get myself into?"

"Oh, shut the fudge up. Grab your junk and let's go find a burger joint or something before she tries to stuff me back in the freakin' plane." Just like that he is off, sauntering through the bustling airport like he has done all of this a hundred times before. I strap my backpack on and hurry after him, grinning as I see him dig a pair of oversized black sunglasses out of the fold of his jacket and slide them into place. If he was any more ridiculous, he would be a work of pure fiction. "What are you feeling? Five Guys or Big Bob's?"

* * *

 **March 18, 2011 at 1 PM, San Antonio, TX: Preston**

I jolt upright in my seat and swat at the tickling feeling at the back of my neck. When my fingers touch someone else's hand I spin around and pull my headphones off, ready to cut into whoever's screwing with me. When I see it's just the annoying airline lady again, all I wanna do is slide my headphones back on and strap on a pair of Oculus Rift goggles to pretend I'm anywhere else but here. This flight freaking sucks and I got the most nosy, bossy, irritating 'chaperone' the whole airline company has to offer. I try not to look or sound as annoyed as I feel right now but I can already tell this isn't gonna look good on my stupid little behavior report they're gonna hand to Mom when she picks me up.

"We will be preparing to land in twenty minutes, Preston, so make sure you return your tray to its upright position and store all of your personal belongings in your luggage in the onboard storage compartment," she tells me slowly, patting me reassuringly on the shoulder like I'm a scared little five-year-old. The only person in the world more irritating than this lady is Daka, and even _he's_ sounding pretty freaking amazing at this point. At least Dak has a sense of humor and wouldn't lecture me for ten minutes about how unhealthy pop is before giving in and handing me a half-size can of Coke.

"We land in twenty minutes?"

"No, we will begin our landing procedure in twenty minutes, and we will land about ten minutes after that." I just look at her for a few seconds and I try to keep my mouth shut entirely but we all know how that always ends.

"Then shouldn't I start getting ready to land in twenty minutes? Why would I start packing up my stuff now?" There isn't even anyone to talk to here in the quarantine area they stick kids in when they're flying by themselves, and if I had to give up my music right now I'd be forced to make an origami something out of this ugly freaking orange billboard they tied around my neck.

"We just want you to be prepared, and to make sure nothing gets accidentally left on the airplane," she answers knowingly, her bright red lips bunched together in a sour little line. She's like that one really controlling babysitter your parents hire to watch your younger siblings even though you're old enough to take of yourself, and they assume you can't do anything for yourself because then they wouldn't have to be there. She gives my shoulder a little squeeze and disappears into the dusty blue curtains around the tiny kitchen and I slide my headphones back on without caring what she's telling her friends about me in the kitchen. If I can wake up, make myself breakfast, and drive to school on time every freaking day, I can put my headphones away and buckle my seatbelt when the fudging plane gets ready to land. It isn't just that, either. The next half hour would be even worse without having my music to distract me. Last year's convention stressed me out because it was the first time I had a booth and I was meeting fans for the first time, but this time I have all that _plus_ meeting Rob for the first time. And that's assuming I can even find him because he was being a pleb and wouldn't send me a picture or anything.

I really hope he isn't a six-hundred-pound retired pedophile cop. I really, really hope I didn't step in it and start working with some ultimate freaking weirdo no one wants to associate with. I really, really, really don't wanna accidentally be best friends with some kind of chimera or mutant or something from Fallout. Please just be normal and easy to find and just like you are online. Mom was really unhappy about me wanting to fly by myself to another city to meet some guy I've never actually met before, and I'm actually kinda glad she made me do this stupid chaperone program. I just wish I didn't need to because it sucks.

I try to concentrate on the music blaring through my headphones but the airline lady brought me back down to reality and now I'm just really anxious again. It looks like I'll be picking my new channel intro theme song on the flight home because it just isn't happening now. I sit there for another five minutes or so before I decide it would be best just to pack up my stuff to keep Ms. Boss Lady from nagging at me again. I scroll through all the texts between me and Rob I'd saved on my phone and I hope the Rob on my phone wasn't just some kind of act. I really want to meet my best friend when we touch down, not some total stranger.

It feels like I could've flown to Australia in the time it takes for us to get to the airport and land. I just tune out the pilot's speech and Boss Lady's packing-up-and-getting-off-the-plane instructions and I grab my stuff off the floor and follow her out of the plane as soon as the path clears. She's still giving me instructions when we step into the actual airport and now her voice is just getting on my nerves. She points over to the luggage pick-up area and starts walking over to it but I just keep walking straight ahead. I look around the terminal once and I don't see anyone with a sign and I start to feel a little bit of panic. If he isn't here, what do I do? I might have to call Jerome and ask him to come forge his signature on the stupid papers saying that he's at least eighteen and that he'll protect me with his life or whatever. The whole thing is just so dumb and useless but they won't let me leave the airport unless someone signs it, which makes no sense to me. Couldn't anyone just sign it and kidnap me or something?

Crap. That isn't what I wanna be thinking about right now. This whole thing is a bad idea. I always have bad ideas. I should've asked Dad to come with me. I look around again as Boss Lady clickity-clacks along behind me and my eyes land on the last thing I expected to see in an airport: a pixelated derp face. There's someone wearing a MrWoofless Minecraft head and a blue sweater and I really hope it's him and not some weird freaking fan trying to meet him. I walk over to them and wait for them to show their face so I can figure out how bad I screwed up this time.

"Hey there, Pearston. Fancy seeing you here, eh?" I'd know his voice anywhere and this is definitely the mysterious MrWoofless. He peers over the top of his derp face and I instantly recognize him from my many Google searches with his lame sweaters and his messy hair and his weird faces.

He was there all along. I thought they'd said his name was 'Christian' so I just skipped over the couple of photos of him I found. He was even in two of Mitch's old vlogs but he never said anything in the videos so I never connected the dots. He doesn't look like a creep, just a nerd. He looks at me for a second before he lets the mask drop away and he's just standing there with his eyebrows raised and a crooked smile. All the anxiety just disappears but my mouth can't move and I wouldn't know what to say even if I could catch my breath. My bag drops to the floor and next thing I know, I have a faceful of blue sweater and cheap body spray and he's laughing in my ear like a complete dork. He just looks and acts like such a nice guy that you can't help but like him and wanna be near him. Now that we're both finally here I don't want either of us to leave and three and a half days doesn't seem anywhere near long enough.

"Perston, people are starting to stare." He tries to move and I just hold onto him harder to make him squirm a little. He's the best person in the world to mess with and tease and he's just too warm to let go of.

"I don't give a single fudge. I found my Rob-a-Dob-Flob and they can just go frick themselves." I don't know if he can hear me because I'm talking into his sweater, so I pick him up off the floor and just hold him there while we both laugh like idiots. In the meantime, the airline lady just watches in shock like she just saw Godzilla or something.

"You said something about food yesterday, right? What did you have in mind?" I let him fall back down on his feet and he stumbles a little from the jolt with a weird smile on his face. I bend over and grab my bag while the airline lady stares at both of like we're giant cockroaches with fifteen wings and three legs. He looks back at her and she just sorta looks creeped out. "Do you need to do something before you can leave, or…?" She reads something on her paper before she spins it around and plops a pen on top of the clipboard and hands it to Rob. He looks down at it like it might bite him and I try not to laugh at his expression.

"Mrs. Arsement requested that her son have a chaperone during the flight and…"

"I don't need a freakin' chaperone! This is the third year in a row I went to this convention and I've never had any problems." They both look like they don't believe me and I can feel my eyes rolling around in their sockets. "Can you just sign the flippin' paper so we can get the frick outta here and find some real food?"

"What am I signing here? You aren't trying to trick me into signing that marriage paperwork again, are you?" The airline lady looks completely freaked out and my face feels like it's on fire. I probably look like I'm sunburned and I fight the weird urge to hide my face in his shirt again so he won't see. I didn't plan to hug him the first time and there's no way I could pass it off as a joke if I did it again. He finally gets done reading the paper and scribbles his name at the bottom before he hands it back. Ms. Boss Lady immediately turns around and makes a beeline for the staff door next to the terminal, and good riddance to her. "So now I am officially stuck with you. What did I get myself into?"

"Oh, shut the fudge up. Grab your junk and let's go find a burger joint or something before she tries to stuff me back in the freakin' plane." I swing my bag further up on my shoulder and start walking towards the main exit of the airport while I dig my sunglasses out of the inside pocket of my coat. After a few seconds Rob runs up next to me with that dumb little derpy sideways smile on his face and I have to smile, too. "What are you feeling? Five Guys or Big Bob's?"


	9. Chapter 9

**March 21, 2011 at 7 PM, San Antonio, TX: Preston**

"So I'm just standing there thinking 'okay, if you were any more stupid, you'd be doin' the running man and sayin' you're practicing for a marathon.' I mean, seriously, who uses floppy disks anymore?" Jerome is on another rant that sounds like a bad comedy routine with his hands flying half a foot from my face and his eyes all wild and crazy. Mitch and Nooch are snickering at his story and I finish the rest of my banana smoothie while Jerome rubs his eyes in disbelief and tries to control all his pent-up emotions from our last day of fan meet-ups.

"So what did you do?" Nooch asks from his spot next to Rob, glancing over at me for the millionth time this weekend. I don't know what he's expecting to see when he looks at me but I'm still the same I was twenty seconds ago when you were last staring at me! Like what the crap, dude?

"I did the only thing I _could_ do: I signed the floppy disk and gave it back to him. The guy had to've been nutso or somethin' because ain't nobody got time for fucking floppy disks in this day and age. What the fuck was he gonna use it for? Guacamole?" Mitch chuckles and the Bac pinches the bridge of his nose and hangs his head so you can't see his face under the brim of his Pikachu snapback cap. Meanwhile, Rob's just leaning on the table with his head resting on his hand and his usual sideways smile, calm as you please while the other three are laughing their butts off.

It's harder to make him laugh and it's like he fights it when you do. He tries to make a straight face but all of a sudden he'll just crack up and start giggling. It feels good to make him laugh, like he doesn't do it as much as you'd think. Most of the time he just sits there and watches people and analyzes them, kinda like Jerome but not in a creepy 'I'm gonna murk you if you cross the line' watchdog kind of way. When the Bacca looks at you, it feels like he's sizing up your soul and thinking about the best way to squish it into a hundred thousand little crunchy pieces, but with Rob it's like he connects with you or he's holding back a good joke. He just puts you at ease and you don't feel judged or worthless or noob-y like you do with Jerome sometimes.

Rob's wearing that dumb blue sweater again with the top of a Creeper head poking out in the front on some free t-shirt he got from a fan yesterday, and his hair and beard look messy in a neat, controlled kinda way. It must be nice to only have to spend five minutes on your hair every morning and to actually have facial hair so people don't think you're like twelve years old. His eyes are nicer than mine, too. They're a light brown with green and he doesn't look like he's about to beat the crap out of you all the time like I do. When we were little, Keeley used to say I had Satan eyes and that I was possessed because…

"You okay there, Preston? You look like a walker," Nooch jokes with his weird wolfy eyes staring at me again. With eyes like those I'm surprised he doesn't transform at the full moon and feast on the bloody, mutilated corpses of his freakin' fluffy bunnies.

"Yeah, it's all good. Just kinda tired."

"You should've got on that caffeine grind like the Waffle Man over here. That's what, your second or third frappuccino today?" Mitch laughs, leaning across the table to poke Rob's cup. Rob just leans down to take a long slurp with his cheeks sucked in and his eyes focused on Mitch's outstretched finger.

"You really don't want to know, man," he finally answers when he catches his breath and the other three cackle. If I drank as many frappuccinos as Rob does I know I'd weigh like eight hundred pounds. I feel guilty for just drinking one big smoothie and I know for a fact he's already had at least three huge coffees plus food. How the frick is he so skinny when he eats three times as many calories as me?

"You should try some sleep sometime, Rob-a-Dob. It does wonders for the brain cells!" Jerome yells and he holds his mouth open like he's trying to be a meme face or something. It's hilarious but I just don't get Baccas or their humor.

"Sleep is for mere mortals, my friends. _I_ am not weak like your people." Rob presses his lips together in a trolly little smile and leans his head on his hand like he's trying to prop himself up.

"Well, something's gotta give. You two are always tired because you never sleep so maybe you should try sleeping together," Jerome remarks and he turns his head to look at me with his beady little eyes. The room gets like ten degrees hotter but I can't turn red or I'm done for.

"How'd you know what we were gonna do after you guys left?" It seems to work and they back off a little. Mitch and the Bac start laughing and Rob's face breaks into an actual grin with teeth and everything, but Nooch just keeps looking at me with his weird werewolf eyes. When I get back home I swear I'm gonna go on Amazon and buy a silver cross to wear to conventions from now on. He's fun to hang out with but jeez, it feels like he's hunting me or something. Are all YouTubers really like these guys in real life, or did I just find the weirdest ones to be friends with?

"Remember, Pearston, we agreed it would be a quickie. I need to jump back on your server and finish the base and the redstone," Rob adds sternly and his eyes glaze over a little bit as he starts planning whatever the heck he's gonna do to my poor little house in the hill. I'd checked in on the server early last night when I promised I'd only be AFK hosting and it looked absolutely nothing like it did the last time I'd been on there. It was almost the same on the outside but the inside was like a whole other world. It was huge and built out of cracked stone and plain stone with the details made out of cobblestone slabs and stairs with tons of empty armor stands and enormous glass floors over flowing lava and water, and it looked like he'd sunk way too much time and effort into it already. For a second I thought I was on the wrong server, but then I remembered who I was working with.

When Jerome said that Rob goes totally OCD on big projects he wasn't lying – if anything, it was an understatement. He must have some serious insomnia or something if he can just spend hours upon hours building a freaking house on a temporary Minecraft server. If it was anyone else I'd be worried about their sanity, but Rob's just a try-hard like that and it's actually kinda awesome. That level of dedication and attention to detail is definitely respectable and the fans are gonna love every inch of it.

"What are you doing with redstone?" Nooch asks and his eyes light up like the star on top of a Christmas tree. I've never seen someone geek out so bad over frickin' redstone. It's just ridiculous.

"Damn it, I should have known not to say anything," Rob says as he comically shakes his fist in the air and stares down at his coffee with the kicked puppy look on his face. "I forgot I was with Bill Nye the Redstone Guy."

"How bad did you screw it up?" Nooch asks with a sly grin as Rob chews on his straw and looks at him with his big, pitiful brown eyes. "Is it really that bad?"

"Well, I guess it isn't _that_ bad. It works, it just… does the exact opposite of what it should."

"In Soviet Russia, redstone places you!" Jerome declares proudly and Mitch and Nooch burst out laughing while Rob grimaces around his straw. "Nah, it's actually more like: in Soviet Russia, Minecraft crashes Rob."

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds pretty accurate," Rob adds as he puts his head against his hand again and leans on the table. He _does_ look really tired but I know he won't even try to sleep until he gets done with whatever he's been working on for the last

four days and said I couldn't see yet. If I was hosting and they had Wi-Fi on the plane back to Canada, I know he'd still be working on it the whole freakin' time. I guess it's probably a good idea to always host our servers on my computer because at least then he'll be forced to sleep or work on something else until I get back online.

"What were you trying to do, though? Is it a food grinder that actually breeds cows, or what? How could it do the opposite of what you designed it to do?" Nooch is actually curious and it's just disgusting. Who the heck gives a shrimp about redstone mechanics besides the Nooch Bot?

"Well, it was supposed to be a one-way elevator to push the player up to the third floor from the second floor, but it kind of… pushes you down and suffocates you in the floor," Rob answers as he looks up at me pathetically. I'm just surprised that our base has a third floor. When did that happen? Why did we need another floor?

"Can't even have one job," Mitch says as he leans back in his chair and puts his arms behind his head to stretch. "I hate to break up this little party and all, but I have a plane to catch so I'll see _you_ suckers later."

"Hey, you can't go and leave your Bac with a buncha weirdos at an airport. That's just not an upstanding thing to do, Mitch." Jerome jumps up and grabs his huge duffel bag of merch from the convention and looks back at Nooch impatiently. Nooch just nods his head a couple times and takes his time getting up. He looks at me again like he wants to eat me for dinner.

"When we get home, send me the server IP and we can figure out what the problem is. I won't even charge you an installation fee this time," he says as he claps Rob on the shoulder and bends down to grab his backpack from under the table. When he stands back up he has the same out-to-lunch empty look in his eyes as Rob does so it must be some crazy Canadian thing.

"Yeah, thanks man. I will absolutely, positively do that because I have _had_ it." Nooch nods again and starts following Mitch and Jerome to catch their plane to Jerome's house in Jersey. He ruffles my hair with his weird, Noochy fingers as he goes by.

"I shall talk to you two noobs later. Peace." I turn and look after them and see Mitch and Jerome turn around and wave with both hands like little kids as Nooch walks right past them. I wave and Rob salutes them dorkily until they disappear around the corner and back into the real world.

"What do we do now?" he asks when I turn around and I just shrug. I have about thirty minutes before my flight boards and Rob's stuck here until ten tonight – he just agreed to sign my stupid chaperone papers again so I wouldn't have to walk back home.

"I dunno. But I'm not gonna sit here and strip mine at the airport. That crap can wait 'til I get home and I need an excuse to not drive Keeley around everywhere."

"Yeah, I completely agree. Honestly, that has to be the worst part of Minecraft – at least caving has a little bit of adventure to it."

"Heh, Rob-a-Dob-Flob the adventurer. I think not."

"Hey, man. Don't you sit there and act like you know me, because you don't," he answers in his fake weak voice as he stirs the remains of his coffee. "I might be a derp, but derps can be heroes, too." I picture his Minecraft character and all the time I've spent talking to that dopey derp face with the five o'clock shadow, and a lightbulb goes off in my head.

"Oh, I almost forgot something! That would've sucked if we got all the way home and I had to send it to you!" I dive under the table and start searching through my stuff and I regret not throwing the bag up on the table first. I can still smell Mitch's rotten meat feet down here and it's a whole new world of sick. I finally find the crinkled up blue paper bag I bought at Target last night and hand it over to him and he just stares at it for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry. I didn't get you anything."

"Don't worry about it. It's just as much for me as it is for you. Just open it, you pleb." He looks at me again like he doesn't know what he should say before he pulls the bag closer to him and peeks inside. He looks confused for a second before he tries to keep himself from laughing and just epicly fails like he always does.

"Did you really have to get me this?" He hides his face behind his hands but I can see his ears and forehead are red from him laughing.

"Of course I did, you cactus. I can't stand talking to a pixelated derp face all the time."

"You would rather talk to the real derp face, eh?" He's still laughing as he pulls the webcam and a huge pack of batteries out from the bag and he looks at me like he can't believe it or something.

"What can I say, I wanna see your handsome face when I make fun of you. And now you have no excuse not to Skype with me 'cause trust me, those batteries'll last you until PAX South next year."

"Thanks, man. This thing is amazing. I just feel really awful that I didn't get you anything."

"Oh shoot, dawg. I don't need anything. Now I got my Rob-a-Dob-Flob and that's all I need." He gets that dorky smile on his face again and it makes my day a hundred times better. I just wish we didn't have to go home so soon.

"Aww… That's adorable. At this rate, you should be able to break the curse and turn back into a normal human, just like you wanted."

"Shut the fudge up." We both just sit there and laugh for a minute and we make each other more hysterical with our own stupid laughter. The people at the little counter thing next to us are staring now but it doesn't matter because Rob is actually crying and I feel like I'm dying by hiccup and it's even funnier like that.

"So what are you… gonna do after I take off?" I ask as we wipe the tears off our faces and I try to stop the freakin' hiccups that have half the people in the coffee shop staring at us now.

"I don't really know. I might just grab another coffee and watch some YouTube, the usual. I missed about a week of Pewdiepie's videos because of this trip and all of the prerecording madness, so that should kill some time."

"You watch Pewdiepie, too?"

"Pearston, everyone watches Pewdiepie."

"Even derps?" He slurps up the rest of his coffee and starts examining his empty cup with a sad look on his face.

"Yes, even derps and lava mobs."

* * *

 **March 21, 2011 at 10 PM, Above San Antonio, TX: Rob**

'This weekend definitely went better than expected. I actually wish PAX lasted a little while longer; I don't want to face reality or this long trip home yet.' That is not just my sentimentality coming through, either – with no Preston or Mat to keep me constantly distracted, my mind wanders into dark corners full of terrors and takes long trips to far-off places I would be better off avoiding. As soon as the plane's ascent levels out, I slide on the electric blue headphones Mom and Dad had bought me for Hanukkah and close my eyes for the first time in almost three days.

My mind still will not stop whirring and racing, but my body needs it to stop sometime, and soon. This sensation of constantly sprinting in my head combined with a complete lack of physical energy makes sleep tantalizing yet impossible. I have so much I want to accomplish, so many ways to use this time, but I cannot bring myself to physically do any of it. My body is beyond the point at which an overload of caffeine has any effect, and my limbs feel like all of the bones have been removed. I feel good, happy, light, excited inside, but outside I feel like absolute shit, like I might collapse at any moment and stare up at the ceiling for hours on end, unable to keep my eyes closed. There is this deep-seated fire burning in the middle of my chest, almost like a fever, and it keeps driving me to work, move, go. Even a playlist of slow, low-bass techno songs has no effect on the drag race going down in my skull.

I already feel alone and lost without my friends, even though Preston only left about two hours ago. Is it pathetic that I miss them so much so soon? I feel so needy and helpless, and I wish I had someone I could lean on back in Montreal. Although I adore my computers and could not physically survive a month without them, talking to Procyon and Zubenelgenubi is nowhere near as fulfilling and satisfying as talking to a person. Even though I have almost four hundred thousand fans watching my every movement every hour of every day, they know so much about me while I know next to nothing about them. Depending on such one-sided relationships is never healthy, and this is a lesson I somehow have still not learned.

This is the very reason I have to let my feelings for Preston go and accept the fact that, even if something developed between us after he turned eighteen, it would never amount to anything serious or lasting. Even if we somehow reconciled our distances in geography and age, I am not willing to wager my very best friend for a spin on the Wheel of Fortune that I know will not land in my favor. That is one sacrifice I refuse to make, regardless of how crushed my irrational heart might feel. Just like with all of the others, I would push him away and end up alone with nothing left to stand on. Even worse, I would be fucking up my relationship with another YouTuber and my coworker, and my capriciousness would screw me over in ways it never had before. My silly heart might be whispering that it is more than just a joke and my awful gaydar might be screeching like a fire alarm, but whatever may come, I refuse to think of Preston as more than just a friend. Anything that comes after that is just not worth the risk.


	10. Chapter 10

**April 18, 2011 at 5 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Just remember to stop eating long enough to say hi to everyone, okay?" Daka says slowly, patting my shoulder as I bring another platter of appetizers into the dining room. I stick my tongue out at him as I head back into the kitchen to see if Mom needs any more help. I can see him behind me in the mirror with that smarmy smirk on his stupid face. He thinks he's so perfect just because he's in the Navy, but guess what? He's still just a big crybaby brat who can't even make himself breakfast so he still lives at home even though he's twenty-one. At least Sam moved out and is man enough to not rub everything in everyone else's faces all the time. "Do you need me to do anything else?"

"Uh… You could pour the drinks, if you don't mind? Just get pop for all the kids and I'll take care of the grown-ups. After that, I think you're free to go." Mom gives me a sideways hug and goes back to carrying the huge plates of cut fruit into the dining room so the relatives won't try to eat each other while dinner cooks. She always goes all-out for Passover to the point that it puts Thanksgiving and Hanukkah and Christmas all to shame. Mom's an absolute monster at cooking and everyone always volunteers her to cook because she refuses to use anything from boxes or cans. I guess I get my stubbornness from her.

"'Kay. I got it." I hunt through the pantry for the big pack of red Solo cups so I won't be stuck doing dishes with Keeley and Caleb for the next six years and I start pouring a butt ton of Sprite. After the Coke Tsunami of 2010 in the living room, Coke is no longer allowed at parties so everyone has to put up with the carbonated pee. I look through the doorway and I see Sam floating around the living room shaking hands and hugging people and I wish I could be in his place. This job sucks and I'm gonna end up doing it all freaking night, but Sam and Daka and Keeley get out of doing shrimp like this because they're 'special.' Out of the three, Keeley makes me the maddest because she's freaking younger than me! Like what the crap?

Well, that's not the whole story. She made first chair violin this year and everyone wants to talk to her about it, but no one wants to talk to me about YouTube except the kids and they don't really count. Then Sam's all grown up now and he's getting married in the fall so everyone wants to talk to him. And Dak's all special and fabulous because he's in the Navy and just finished his training so he can work in their offices until he gets assigned a unit. Caleb and Josh just disappeared like they always do at holidays because all they wanna do is eat and play Zelda with Derek and Jon and I don't blame 'em. So now it's just me, here in the kitchen with the bottles upon bottles of pop and nobody wants to talk to me until they want something to drink and they have to walk by me. No one cares what I did this year or about all the stuff I've accomplished and it just freakin' sucks, okay? So what if I'm a little salty about it!

I'm never gonna be special like the other three and even Josh's more popular than I am. I've heard a couple people ask Mom where he was but no one's bothered asking about me even though I'm older than him and I'm sitting right here. He got invited to some kind of GATE program for next year and everyone's all proud of him. Now it's just me and ADHD Caleb battling for the title of 'Least Favorite Child' and I think I'm gonna win the gold medal. Sam was valedictorian in high school, Daka's in the Navy, Keeley's good at the violin, and Josh's going to a special school next year. No one cares about my A's and B's and good-but-not-perfect test scores and my run-of-the-mill awards, and definitely no one cares about my YouTube career and my 48-hour streaming marathon in June and my amazing friends and the two hundred thousand subs I just earned on my Minecraft channel. No one cares about any of that except me and kinda Mom and Dad. They try to be proud of me but they don't know how to because I'm not as great as their other kids. All I want is to be the best for once, to be better than the other five and be the one everyone's talking about just for a little while. Is that such a bad thing?

If everyone's ignoring me now when I'm doing everything right, what're they gonna do when I tell them I'm not gonna go to college? They keep telling me that YouTube isn't a real job and that I'm gonna end up living at home forever because I'm never gonna make enough money to do anything with my life. They want me to get rid of my channels and take out a butt ton of loans to get a job I know I won't like a millionth as much as I like YouTube. There's no way in the seven Nethers I'm giving up YouTube to go to boring classes to get a boring degree to get a boring desk job to live a boring life in a boring apartment surrounded by boring people who have equally boring lives. Heck no. I'd rather be nuking noobs on COD and lava bucket-ing plebs in Sky Wars and going to conventions where people actually care about what I did in the last year and remember my name isn't 'Prestad.'

I miss Rob and the other guys. I wish he wasn't so busy this week or I'd pull a Caleb and jump on Skype with him and record something. Anything to get out of this crap. I bet no one'd even notice I'm gone. I pour a big cup of Sprite and chug it down to kill the taste of saltiness in my mouth. One of my cousins sticks her head in the room to look for something to drink, sees me sitting here, and just walks away. Now I'm not even good enough to pour pop, huh? I pull my phone out of my pocket and check to see if Rob answered my last text but no such luck. I'm stuck here by myself in a house full of people who all think I'm a loser.

"This freakin' sucks."

* * *

 **April 18, 2011 at 7 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

'I hope Preston is having a better time tonight than I am.' I duck into the kitchen to avoid Aunt Debra the Downer and Sandy Snake-Eyes, pretending to be looking for something under the counter farthest from the door. I hear the door open, then close a few seconds later as they move on, hoping to have better luck somewhere else. After nearly a month with no depression, insomnia, or financial troubles, it seems that Passover at Debra's house is going to be the end of my good luck streak. I like to think that I'm a pretty patient guy, but the party only started an hour ago and I'm already at the end of my rope. If they continue stalking me like this, I swear I will run out the front door so fast I won't have time to see Mom's glare or Dad's smirk. I am so done right now I feel like the lamb roasting in the oven.

'You can't seriously expect to hide here forever. This is just pathetic.' I sigh and peek over the top of the counter before I slowly stand back up. I feel like a little kid hiding from the Boogeyman, except this nightmare is real with lasting consequences. I decide to go out the door I came in through, expecting them to be lurking around the one they just checked. I make a break for the barstool in the shadowy corner next to the fireplace, hoping to stay hidden there for just a little while. 'If I had been smart, I would have grabbed some food from the kitchen before escaping. As Mitch would say, I am not the sharpest tool in the shed.' I relax against the brown stone wall and enjoy the warmth from the fire and the odor of Uncle Benny's scented cigar. He is slouched in an ancient rocking chair next to the door, munching on a celery stick with the remains of a halo of smoke circling around his bald head. With any luck at all, the stench of his cigars will drive Debra and Sandy far, far away from me. At this point, I would be content eating the smoke for dinner if it meant enjoying a little peace. I slip my phone out of my pocket and reply to the text Preston sent me earlier:

 _Perst[heart]n: you know its called Passover bc they all pass right over me -_-'_

 _Me: Only because they don't want to make everyone else jealous. ;)_

'I wish I could swap places with you, man. This game of hide-and-seek fucking sucks.' Preston is a glory-seeker if I have ever seen one, even worse than Mitch, and he takes it very personally when others do not recognize his accomplishments or upstage him. He lives entirely off of chocolate milk and other people's praise, and I am firmly convinced that the Gulf of Mexico was formed by all of his salty tears of disappointment from his childhood. I feel sorry for him, I really do, but he seems to think that being in the spotlight is significantly better than being on the sidelines. Honestly, it isn't.

"Pssst. Watch yourself," Uncle Benny hisses from his chair, his wise old eyes wide under his white, bushy eyebrows. He nods behind him and I feel my face wrinkle up in disgust. I can hear her high heels clicking on the wooden floor around the corner and I just want to run far, far away. I knew I should not have moved back to Montreal, and I should have listened to myself instead of Mom for once in my life. I shove myself farther back against the mantle and hope for the best.

"Well, I have no idea where he went. Did you check upstairs?" Debra asks, her back turned to me as she rearranges her bouncy black curls, entirely ignoring the old man rocking in her creaky chair. I swear to cater to Uncle Benny's every whim for the rest of the night if he doesn't give my hiding spot away.

"Yes. Why are we still doing this, Deb?"

"Come here for a minute. Come on." She looks around the main room quickly and ushers Sandy past us into the kitchen, then shuts the door behind her. I hear her put her back against the door so no one can enter. Uncle Benny snaps another piece off of his celery and shakes the stick in my direction, the familiar crooked Latsky smile on his face. We are sitting only about a meter from the door and I can hear them arguing in the kitchen, their voices quickly rising from whispers to shouts. "You know this is all for the best, Sandy. Why do you have to make this so unpleasant?"

"Why do _I_ have to make it unpleasant? Why did _you_ pick the most unpleasant guy in the world and try to shove him down my throat? Huh?"

"You know he isn't that bad. He just needs a little… work. It could be much worse, you know."

"A little work? He needs a _little work_? He is a fucking nutcase, Deb! His parents already locked him up at the psych hospital twice, and he makes videos of himself for a living! How in the hell do you fix that? Pray, tell me." My face feels as hot as the fire crackling next to me and I just want to walk away now before it escalates any farther. I want to go back home and order Chinese food while I watch the rest of the second season of 'Hoarders' on Netflix. If nothing else, that show makes me feel a little better about my personal brand of crazy.

"I told you, he takes medication and he hasn't tried to kill himself again. I heard he straightened his life out, and if he hasn't, he has life insurance and he would make a nice paperweight for your desk. Not just that, but he makes three times as much money as you do without even trying. You won't find that on a dating website, Sweets."

"You know, you're right. I can find guys I can actually stand to look at on dating websites. What a shame that doesn't matter in the real world!"

"Now I know he isn't your type but…"

"No, this is way beyond not being my 'type.' We've gone past that into a whole different dimension of fugly. He is a complete loser and he looks like fucking Hermione Granger with his bushy brown hair and yellow buck teeth!" My hand flies up to try to flatten my hair and it just springs right back up, like it always does. This is nothing I hadn't heard before from Nessa, but it still hurts. I know I'm not attractive, smart, or even mentally stable, and I have accepted that I will either settle for an unhappy marriage or die alone. However, this is not something I want Sandy to be screaming at a party for the rest of the family to hear.

"You aren't listening to me. Things like that can be fixed with a little _love_ and a little _money_. He would be out of your way, working on his computer all day or collecting dust on a shelf, and you could open up that restaurant you always talk about. That would be worth it, wouldn't it?"

"What would be worth it? Looking at him, or screwing him?" There is silence for a few seconds, but I have heard enough. I wish I could channel Preston for five minutes and just put an end to all of this matchmaking crap once and for all, but I will never be brave like him, no matter how appalling these people are. When I am reduced to an urn on a bookshelf or a means to an end, I have no business being here. I slowly get to my feet and dig my wallet out, shuffling through the bills until I find the crisp, red fifty note.

"You didn't see or hear anything, alright?" I fold the bill in half and hand it to Uncle Benny, and he grins and nods vehemently as he tucks the money into his shirt pocket with his cigar tin.

"Sure thing, Robbie boy. Chag kasher v'same'ach!"

"You, too, sir. I'll see you in December."

'If I bother showing up.' He starts nodding again as he gnaws on a new celery stick, and he waves as I walk toward the front of the house. I search around for Dad, hoping he will let me steal his car for a few hours until he decides he has had enough, too. I was never very religious, and I would rather spend Passover in a Tim Horton's or a McDonald's than here – and I plan to do just that. I skirt past the room where Mom is talking to her sister and find Dad reclining on a couch in Deb's hideous craft room, a glass of white wine in his hand as he stares out the window into the dark backyard. I can still see the tan line where his wedding band used to be, but all of that is in the past. I have no problem with my parents' divorce; in fact, they could live on different planets if it would make them happy.

"Dad, can I kidnap your car for a while?" He looks back at me with a smart assed grin on his face, like he was waiting all evening for me to appear.

"You've had your fill already? What did Deb do this time?"

"She said enough. I've had enough. I'm _done_." His smile falters a little as he stands up. He looks more sympathetic, but still cocky. I love him to death but there are times when I wish he would stop being such a troll. I hold out my hand for the keys, but he grasps it and shakes it before stepping back and chuckling.

"You know, if you leave your mom is going to come down on _my_ head for giving you the car."

"You aren't giving me the car – I only want to borrow it for a little while." I glance around for Mom and Deb, and my eyes fall on our reflections in the dark window. Our faces have broken into identical conspiratorial smiles, our reflections so eerily similar it is like someone had cloned him at an earlier age and just knocked a couple of screws loose. I can see the gears turning in his head as he takes a sip of wine, weighing the pros and cons of granting my request. "You can call me whenever you want to go, and there will be a box of Timbits waiting for you." He looks tempted but guilty, and I know I have him in a corner now.

"What about tomorrow? You promised you would help us pack up the house and move my crap to the condo."

"I will. I never said I was bailing completely, and a promise is a promise. I'll drive us back to your place after you get tired of running away from Deb."

"Your mom is going to absolutely murder me."

"I'll bring flowers and Timbits to your funeral." He grins but his eyes never blink, like he is trying to calculate whether or not a box of fried desserts is worth taking my place in the game of cat-and-mouse.

"No can do, Robbie. Deb will be trying to marry Snake-Eyes off on me next. You're on your own."

"Car or no car, I'm leaving. I would rather walk the five kilometers in the cold than hear myself being roasted here. The car gets you two boxes of Timbits, walking gets you a guilt trip. What will it be, Daddy-O?" He takes a long sip of wine before he nods slowly, looking around guiltily as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and hands them to me. "Thank you, thank you. I love you."

"You should be saying 'I'm sorry.' If you loved me you wouldn't be doing this to me." He gives me his sorrowful puppy eyes in a last-ditch effort to get me to stay, but I am already walking backward away from him.

"I'm sorry, truly." I shoot him one last grin before I hurry toward the front door, keys jingling merrily in my pocket now. I can see the front door now, only two meters away. I can see my shadow reflected in the doorknob now, I can almost touch it…

"Robbie?" I freeze and grit my teeth, my arm jutting out at an awkward angle as I slowly turn around to face the owner of the voice. Behind me is the usual hoard of kids dressed up in little dresses and tuxedos, and each and every one of them is staring up at me accusingly. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, Dad left something out in the car and he asked me to get it for him. What are all of you doing?" Some of them seem to buy it, but the majority can see right through my lie. This is the worst time to be such a terrible liar.

"We were looking for you all night. We wanted to give you our lists." Andy holds out a big, white envelope with my name scribbled on it in glittery blue gel pen and I try not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"It seems a little early to be making gift lists, doesn't it? Today is Passover, guys. Hanukkah is seven months away."

"It might take you a while to get this stuff," Hanna answers, a shy smile on her face. I carefully take the envelope from Andy, glancing around quickly to see if Deb or Mom has found me yet. I open the letter and skim the first page of the list. I try hard to stifle my laughter, but some of it still forces its way out.

"You want Benja t-shirts? All of you?" This honestly has to be one of the most hilarious things I have seen this year. Jerome is going to have an absolute fucking conniption fit when he sees my order for this many shirts. With any luck, they might give me a bulk discount.

"Not just any Benja t-shirts. We want the new limited edition 'In Benja We Trust' t-shirts, and the matching poster signed by the BenjandBac and you," Andy corrects matter-of-factly as the others nod in complete agreement.

"And Pearston the Pleb, ya cactus!" Garrett yells in a bad Southern accent as he jumps up and down.

'I need to get out of here before I crack up and draw attention to myself. I can laugh about this later with Preston; just make it to the car now.'

"I'll look through all of this tonight and talk to Mitch, but right now Dad is waiting for me to get back." The younger kids look content, and the older ones look at me knowingly as the crowd begins to disperse. I slide the envelope into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and hurriedly open the door, hoping to make it to the car before anyone decides to follow me out here to try to change my mind. I throw open the car door and jump in, thrusting the keys in the ignition before I even close the door. I speed away from the house, buckling the seat belt only when I stop at the street corner. I sigh in relief as I glance behind me in the mirror and see that no one bothered to come outside.

'Darryl had the right idea all along. I am free at last, and I am never going back.'

* * *

 **April 18, 2011 at 8 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I take my sweet time walking back to the dining room when Mom finally calls us to eat dinner and I realize how bad I screwed up as soon as I get there. The only spot left is right smack in the middle of the kid's table and Daka's sitting catty-corner from my chair, only one person away. If I was invited to dinner with the devil, I'm pretty sure this is what it'd look like. I'm stuck between the twin terrors Daniel and Ethan with their sister Tori sitting across the table from me with that evil little smile of hers. For just being eight years old she's a real pain in the butt. I pretend not to see her and put my cup down on the table before I try to untangle my folding chair from the others around it.

"Hi, Preston," she says all innocent as she taps her fork on the table while we wait for someone to say the prayer.

"Hi." I'm still trying not to look at her and her hellfire red hair but this isn't gonna end well for me and I know it.

"I like your videos, Preston."

"You do? I'm glad you like 'em." She has something planned, I can feel it. Mom thinks I'm paranoid but this little girl is pure evil.

"I like the ones with Jerome and Rob. They're funny."

"Yep. The Bacca's really something."

"I really like Rob."

"Yep."

"Do you like Rob?" She's looking at me with those sneaky little black eyes of hers and it feels like I have a mini-Jerome deciding the fate of my soul. Maybe that's why she likes him so much.

"Of course I like Rob."

"Why?"

"Because he's my best friend and I like working with him."

"Why?"

"Because he's funny and fun to hang out with."

"Why?" Isn't she getting too old for this bull shrimp? Is she really gonna do this all night?

"Because he knows a lot of good jokes."

"Why?"

"Because he's smart."

"Why?"

"Because he went to college."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

"Because I'm stupid." Ethan and Daniel start snickering and I wonder how many other people are listening to this pointless conversation.

"Why?"

"Because I was born that way." She takes a break for a few minutes while Dad leads the prayer and everyone fights like savages over the best food in the universe. I'm kinda disappointed that no one started crying this year, though.

"Do you really like Rob?"

"Yes, I really like Rob. I already told you, he's my best friend and we work together all the time."

"Do you really, really like Rob? Like, do you love him?" Okay, no. This is getting too weird and the last thing I want right now is for Dak to hear her and start in on me, too.

"I love him like a brother but that's it."

"So you love Rob."

"Like a brother. That's the only way I love him."

"That's not what you say in your videos." I have to keep it together and not get too ticked off. She's just trying to get me to yell at her so I get in trouble. That's all she wants from me. Just eat some food and let it go.

"Because it's just a video and it's funny. That's just how we joke around."

"Rob loves you. He says it all the time." She keeps on smiling while I try to eat my food. She's making me lose my appetite with this crap and it's ruining the best meal of the whole freakin' year.

"He's just jokin' around, Tori. Trust me, I know him better than you do."

"Because you love him and he loves you. That's what 'Poofless' means." My jaw locks in place and I stare right back into her little rat eyes. We can't get into this at the dinner table with Dak and all these other people listening. That could only end in more teasing I don't wanna deal with. I ignore her for a little while and she just sits there and stares at me while we eat. Daniel and Ethan are watching me now, too, and it's scary quiet in our corner of the room. My phone vibrates in my pocket and it's so loud everyone around me can hear it, too. "Is that Rob? Do you miss him?" I just wanna tape her mouth shut.

"I miss Mitch and Jerome and Kenny, too. I have other friends I miss."

"But not as much as you miss Rob. When you get old are you gonna marry him?" This kid's seriously screwing with my stomach and I know I'm at least as red as the bottle of wine on the counter.

"No. We're just friends. We're only ever gonna be friends."

"Why?"

"Because we only wanna marry girls."

"Why?"

"Because we only like girls."

"Why?"

"Because boys are only supposed to like girls."

"Why?"

"Because that's just how it is."

"Why?"

"Because God made us that way and He knows what's best." That stops her again for a little while and I get to enjoy my food in peace and quiet while Dad laughs loudly at someone's joke at the head of the table. I hate sitting with the kids. How did Mom and Dad deal with having so many freakin' evil little psycho kids? I can't stand three for an hour – how'd they deal with six for so many years?

"Rob's kinda like a girl," Tori says out of the blue and Ethan and Daniel start snorting in their mashed potatoes. "He likes flowers and pretty things and he said he thinks you're cute. And he's Jewish." I just wanna stick my head in the bowl of gravy and drown. It'd be a good way to die and Daka'd be happy because he could write a fat joke on my tombstone.

"Rob is… He's different and he has a weird sense of humor and he just happens to like flowers. That doesn't mean I wanna marry him, okay? We're just friends and we only like each other as friends, and that's the end of that."

"If you don't like him then why do you make out with him?" I'm so red right now I'm seriously sweating and I don't even know why this is pissing me off so much. I deal with stuff like this in the comments all the time, but as soon as it comes out of Tori's squeaky, toothless mouth it just makes me angrier than sin. Since when was Tori the captain of the Poofless ship?

"I don't make out with him. It's just a joke. It's all just a joke. That's why it's funny."

"Who are you making out with this time, Pressy?" Daka sneers as he sticks a chunk of meat in his big ugly mouth. Why couldn't they've assigned him to a unit in Japan or somewhere on Uranus where he belongs? "Are you talking about your little YouTube boyfriend again?"

"He isn't my boyfriend."

"His name's Rob," Tori adds with a satisfied little smirk. I really, really, really don't like this kid right now. "He made Preston a nice big house and put flowers in it and everything." Daka raises his eyebrows and he gets that look in his eyes that means he isn't gonna let it drop.

"Flowers, huh? Did he get you a nice, fluffy bed, too?"

"No, they already had a bed. But Rob got him a big red car so the color would match all his red lava stuff in the house." Can't she just shut up already?

"Goin' right for the big boys, huh? He got you a car and a house so you'd be his boyfriend?" A couple other people are looking at us now and I just wanna go back to pouring pop in the corner with no one to talk to.

"He is _not_ my boyfriend. We just joke around a lot in our videos."

"He is too! That's why you're called 'Poofless' and you make videos together every single day!" Is Tori actually convinced or is she just being a huge troll? How many other people really think I'm dating Rob?

"Now what in the _hell_ is a 'Poofless?' It sounds pretty queer to me, Pressy." Daka's the last person in the world I wanna be explaining this to and I was hoping he'd never find out about that stupid ship name. I wish I could just beat him in the head with the gravy ladle and get second degree murder and be done with it.

"It's our usernames combined. We play a lot of team games and it's just what the computer calls us." It's sorta true, but I'd rather try to explain 'Poofless' than 'TBNRless' and hear him make crotch jokes all night.

"You know what a 'poof' is, right? You're gonna go around calling yourself that and get mad when people call you queer? Did Rob eat your face _and_ your balls?"

"Hey, hey! Don't talk like that in front of the kids!" Mom hisses and she sends a death glare at Daka while she points her fork at him. "Leave your brother alone and let everyone eat in peace."

"You mean pieces? You forgot we're talking about Preston here." Now he's really just pissing me off. If I wouldn't get in an epic poop ton of trouble later I'd push his face into his food and leave. But no, I have to sit here and listen to him take jabs at me and there's nothing I can do about it until later. He freakin' ruins everything.

"Daka. Watch it. You're toeing the line, kiddo," Mom warns and she looks like she means business for once. "Stop calling your brother fat."

"Yeah, there's nothin' wrong with havin' a little meat on the bones!" Grandpa Charlie laughs as he smacks his pot belly and makes it jiggle. That really isn't helping me, dude. Like, at all.

"You aren't fat, sweetie. You're just a little chubster like me when I was your age," Dad's sister Pauline adds, but that isn't comforting either because she weighs like four hundred pounds and has a pound of potatoes on her fork.

"There's no reason for him to be so big at his age. He's what, thirteen now?" someone asks from the end of the table and my face heats up again. Now everyone's joining in on the game of 'Pick on Preston' and I just tune it all out. I'm not even hungry anymore. I'm not dating Rob, I'm _not_ gay, and I'm not _that_ fat, so they can all just sit on their forks and fudge off. Tori doesn't say anything for the rest of the meal but she keeps watching me with that twisted little smile on her grimy lips like she knows a secret or something I don't. I can't stand that kid.

I pick at my food while I wait for people to start leaving the table and I just want them all to leave me alone. All Daka and everyone else does is tease me constantly and tick me off. They never have anything good to say about me and I'm tired of listening to everyone make jokes about me all the time. No one ever sees the stuff I'm good at or the good things I do – it's always a matter of who did it first or who did it better or who did something more important. Compared to Sam and Daka, I'm just short and fat and lazy and dumb and antisocial, and I'm pretty sure that's how it's always gonna be.

It won't be like this next year, though. I'll make sure of that. Even though I know I'm gonna regret it, I already signed up to take weight training as one of my electives for senior year so I could try to get in better shape. I was planning to go on a diet over the summer when I'd have videos to keep my mind off being hungry but I guess I'm gonna start earlier than I planned. I'm so over the fat jokes I can't even see the ground anymore. I don't like my cheeks that all the old people like to pinch at parties or my moobs or my jelly belly, and I'm tired of Daka's comments about me overflowing my computer chair and getting trapped in my room. I'm sick of it and if it means I only get half a plate of food at Passover, that's what's gonna happen. I wish I was skinny and confident like Rob.

* * *

 **Just a Quick Note: If you enjoy this story, please remember to LikeFavSub. Each chapter takes at least five hours to write and edit, and seeing that other people are enjoying it as much as I am motivates me to release new chapters on time. Thank you for sticking around this long and for all of the supportive comments. As always, I'll see you suckers on the other side.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Trigger Warning: This chapter may be offensive or triggering for some people. If you do not think you can handle it, I encourage you to click away. Please see the story description for an updated list of warnings.**

* * *

 **October 3, 2011 at 7 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I toss the last paper plate in the trash and shut the fridge door on my way out of the kitchen. Who knew it'd take so long to clean up after freaking pizza? I feel bad for making Rob wait but I'm also really glad it's just Rob and not someone who'd get really ticked off at me for being a couple minutes late. Rob never gets mad about anything, which's great and scary at the same time. I've known the guy for almost a year now and I've seen him get frustrated and sad and salty, but I don't think he's ever been actually angry. Maybe that's a good thing because an angry derp face would be really confusing to try to figure out. I bet he's one of those people who just smiles when they're angry and you can't really tell that you ticked 'em off until they show up at your window with a Molotov cocktail and grin at you from the front yard while you're screaming for help.

This is where I start scaring myself. Like, how do I even come up with this stuff? Dad used to say that if I got stuck on a deserted island I'd be perfectly fine for years until someone found me because I'm just crazy enough that I wouldn't go completely batflip insane. No, Rob seems more like a dagger kinda guy – he'd knock on the door and pretend to give you a hug, then he'd just stick it in the back of your skull and the last thing you'd see is his evil crooked smile. Or, even more likely than that, he'd just be too nice to try to kill me and he'd just sit there and give me those big ol' sad eyes on Skype until the Bacca showed up at the door and bashed my head in with his precious Betty and they'd sit there and laugh about it together while I bled to death. Okay, I think this has gone far enough. Gettin' creepy now. If this is how I'm thinking now, maybe I shouldn't've bought those energy drinks for the gaming marathon. I finish wiping down the dining room table and I shut the light off and get ready to go upstairs to start a killer weekend of recording and new release hype when I walk right into a starchy blue wall.

"Where're you going in such a hurry? Are you makin' a break for it before someone sees you fingering Keeley's birthday cake?" Daka snickers as he brushes raindrops off his precious origami hat and hangs it up on the coat tree. I can hear Dad putting his keys down on the table in the front hall and I can't afford to make a scene with Dak. The last thing I need is for him to get me grounded a couple weeks before a convention I already booked a flight and bought tickets for.

"Pizza's in the fridge in the foil. Could you please move?"

"Depends. Where're you headed?"

"Upstairs. Like always."

"What're you gonna do up there? Strip for your boyfriend? I don't think even _he_ wants to see that, bro." He pretends to look me up and down and he stops his eyes on my stomach. I keep myself from squirming so he doesn't get the satisfaction of knowing that his words hurt. I already lost thirty pounds but I still have a ways left to go, and Daka takes every chance he gets to remind me that I'm still fatter than him. He's just jealous that my job's a thousand times better than his'll ever be so he tries to make me feel like crap all the time and it usually works. "You might hafta pay _him_ to watch _you_ this time."

"I don't wanna hear what you do when you're deployed, Dak. TMI, dude."

"Naw, I'm not into that kinky shit like you, Pressy. I don't spend every waking second making videos for RedTube like you." He'd be hilarious if it wasn't all directed right at me. I just stand there and stare at him, hoping he'll give up and let me go if he doesn't get a reaction out of me. "So how does that work? Do you just suck on the camera to get him going until you see him at conventions? Or does he send you a sample in the mail and you rub it all over your tig ol' bitties for him?"

"What the hell do you want, Dak?"

"For what? To not tell Mom what you're really doing in your room all day and night?"

"No, to shut the frick up."

"I just wanna understand you, bro. You said you were 'streaming' with your boyfriend this weekend. What else could that mean?" He calls Rob my boyfriend so often now that I don't even bother correcting him anymore. It doesn't do any good and it just gives him a way to tick me off even faster. I know I have a short fuse and he loves to watch me lose my temper and get in trouble, and I won't let him get to me this time. I can't wait until he leaves on Sunday for three months. It's gonna be better than Christmas.

"Are you done yet?"

"No way. I'm just getting started. How many strip teases did you hafta do to buy that pizza?" He pauses for a couple seconds, trying to bait me into it. "Oh, wait. I forgot you can't do math. Sorry." He smirks and I just keep staring at that one really crooked tooth at the front of his mouth even braces couldn't fix.

"It's a good thing the Navy wanted you. The good Lord knows you wouldn't've made a living in Vegas."

"Yeah, you're really one to be making Vegas jokes, Pressy. Is that where your next meet-up is? I bet he has an extra large pole with your name written on it." I keep staring at his snaggle tooth and I wish we were kids again so I could tackle him down on the stairs and drag him across the living room floor so he'd get covered in cat hair. "Did he send you your maid costume yet?"

"It's pretty sad you already ran out of good jokes. It's only been, what, two minutes? You're losing your touch, Dak. Can I go now?"

"Yeah, sure." He sidesteps out of my way and he ruffles my hair as I go past him so I'll look like I just got hit by a tornado. "Just tell Rob I said congrats." I turn around and keep walking backwards to my room.

"For what?"

"On the baby. You're, what, like seven months along now?" I roll my eyes and duck into my room so he won't see how ticked off that made me. I wish he would pick on Josh or Caleb or Keeley once in a while and give me a frickin' break! Five times a day, seven days a week, every week of the year it's always me and I'm sick of it! If there's one thing that's worse than being called fat, it's being called fat, gay, girly, and pregnant at the same time. If anyone's gonna be preggo, it's gonna be Rob.

"Okay, no. What? What the heck?" My mind did not just go there. No. Just no. Oh, Lord. I can see it now. With flowers painted on the walls and giant stuffed animals everywhere and his dumb blue sweater stretched all the way out and a baby with huge brown eyes wearing a mini blue sweater and chugging on a bottle of chocolate milk. Make it stop. "What the crap, Dak? Why you do dis to me?" I don't know how long I'm gonna hafta sit with my head buried in my pillow before I can face the real Rob without crying or having a seizure or something.

* * *

 **October 3, 2011 at 8 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

'He said he might be a few minutes late, but this is getting ridiculous. He must have gotten into it with his brother again.' I swivel my desk chair away from Zubenelgenubi's many monitors and stare out the window at nothing in particular. There is a light powder of snow on the roofs of the small houses below and, for a night with no moon, the street is oddly bright. 'I wonder where mine is right now.'

'Wherever he is, he isn't thinking about you.' The truth is harsh but unavoidable. Thinking about Darryl is always painful, especially with the holidays approaching and invitations arriving. How anyone could walk out the door and leave their entire family behind always baffled me, but after the disaster at Debra's house earlier this year I am beginning to understand how appealing that kind of freedom is. If I am completely honest with myself, I would rather stay home alone than face Debra or Angela again. That may make me a terrible person but even _I_ have to draw the line somewhere, whether or not anyone else understands. If only Preston could see what a truly dysfunctional family looked like, he would stop wishing his was so different. He honestly has no idea how lucky he is, how blessed he is to have so many people who love him so much. A bit of teasing is less damaging than seven years of invisibility.

'Can you afford not to go? Can you imagine what Mom would say if you told her that you were never going to another family event again? Would that make you just like _him_?' My older brother was always the strong one, the smart one, the sure one, and I wanted so much to be like him that I prayed every night to _be_ him. I wanted to be perfect, too. Darryl was everything my parents had ever wanted in a child, even if he was the only one they could ever have. They had never expected to have another baby, and to Darryl I was always the half-baked, dim-witted, broken down younger brother who always got in his way and got away with murder. They were Dale, Darren, and Darryl Latsky, and I was Robert, the a-la-carte special who was never as good as the original.

When I began having severe mood swings in grade eight, Darryl continually accused me of trying to steal his glory and trying to ruin his graduation. He was winning top academic and athletic awards and preparing to go to uni, and here I was, restrained in a hospital bed with stitches holding my arms together, failing all of my classes and turning Dad's hair grey with worry. I was the filthy dirt under my brother's feet and my name became an insult, a swear word. Even when I graduated from high school at the top of my class, I was still the dead pixel in the middle of his flat screen TV; when he realized I could not be fixed, he replaced the entire TV with a bigger, better one and threw me out. He stays in contact with Mom and Dad, but for me, there is nothing but radio silence. 'Maybe it's for the best. If it makes him happy, who am I to judge him?'

'I wonder if Preston's brother is like that. Are all YouTubers social outcasts, or is it just our group?' I watch a white car crawl down the street and into an empty driveway, the woman and her two kids hurrying up the walkway to their front door to escape from the cold. I stare at their miniscule black footprints in the thin snow, imagining our old house in Saguenay and the days when our family portraits had four people instead of three. When Skype finally rings, I nearly fly out of my chair in terror. I laugh and turn on the lamp and the webcam before I answer his call.

"Whew! For a second there I thought you weren't gonna pick up because you finally got a job! What a relief!"

"You know I try, babe. It's just so hard to find a job during a blizzard in the middle of an economic downturn." He snickers while he turns on his webcam, squinting as he uses the monitor as a mirror to fix his tousled hair. "It looks like you just played a round of UHC. You okay, man?"

"It's just Daka being a prick again. My whole family is a buncha cacti, I'm tellin' you. Are you ready to churn out some Dinos before the epic-est midnight of life?"

"Yeah, boy! Dark Souls hype!" Preston can always find a way to cheer me up and bring me back to reality. This is going to be the best marathon playthrough ever, with three days to run through the best game of the year with my best friend. "I can host it on 'Preston's Butt' if you just give me a minute to do a reset."

"You _could_ just call it 'Mods,' ya know."

"I know. I just like 'Preston's Butt' better." He rolls his eyes and pretends to glare at me, but the ghost of a smile gives him away. I connect to the server and begin preparing the new mod pack for the survival series he has been pestering me to do with him since August.

"Everyone knows that, Robert. That's all you ever talk about."

"Don't you know it, sweet-ness." His face breaks into a genuine smile, and he puts his hands up to cover his face.

"Ugh, don't ever try to imitate Mitch again. You can't do the accent, dude, and it's just disgusting."

"I-I'm sorry." He joins the server and begins smacking my character mercilessly with his flaming fists while I crouch and stare down at the ground sorrowfully.

"Stop being a filthy pleb and let's get this party rolling! We only have four hours to make two hours of footage! Snap to it!"

"I would if you would stop beating me! Preston, please!" He hits me a few more times for good measure, leaving me with only one heart of health. We begin preparing for the recording – setting the death counter, reconfiguring the server settings, fighting over the best place to set our initial spawnpoint until we can make a base. When we are finally satisfied and everything is installed and ready, we stand side-by-side and look up at the early morning sky. "Ready? In three, two, one…"

"Hey, what's going on guys! It's Preston here with the Rob-a-Dob-Flob, and we're _finally_ bringing you Mecha's Triassic Park modpack!"

* * *

 **October 3, 2011 at 10 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Hey, Rob. Can you give me your bone for a minute?" I glance over at him on my Skype monitor, but he obviously has not realized what he just said. He looks so innocent with his big, coffee-colored eyes and that cocky little smile he always gets when he thinks he just figured something out that no one else could possibly know.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I just wanna see your bone for a minute and I'll give you something good," he whines with a fake pout, his Minecraft character staring over at me, too. I wait him out for a few seconds before he connects the dots, and he facepalms hard enough for me to hear the smack through the microphone. "I mean your _dinosaur_ bone."

"Now you're calling me a dinosaur? You said you loved me just the way I am!" He grins, although he looks pinker than usual now. His face changes colors so quickly and so frequently that he must be part lava lamp.

"I do, bby plz. Just let me see your bone." I make a derp face and slowly wheel back from the desk while he begins leaning toward the camera until all I can see is one huge, dark eye looking downward. "Hey there, bby."

"Hey, cutie. You're… hot and spicy." We both burst out laughing until we have tears streaming down our faces and my recording program sends me a notification about readjusting my volume settings.

"All my tears… It… hurts!" Preston hiccups as he wipes his eyes with the side of his hand.

"What the hell are you doing in here? For fuck's sake, Pressy! Are you really trying to blow your camera? I was a joke, dude." Preston jumps in his chair and slowly turns his head to look at the man leaning in his doorway. He looks like an older, wiry version of Preston with short-cropped hair, his angular face pulled into a mischievous grin and his cell phone pointed toward Preston's computer set-up.

"Get the fudge out, Dak! You're screwing up my recording!"

"Uh, it looks like you're screwing way more things than me. Why the hell are you making that awful noise? People are tryin' to sleep!" He steps into the room and peers at the computer monitors, his eyebrows raised in incredulity when he sees me looking back at him, like he had been expecting to see an entirely different kind of creature. I have never spoken to the guy, but I can already see why Preston doesn't get along with him. "This is your sweet little boyfriend, Pressy? Isn't he a little too old for you?"

'Shit. This is going to be a serious problem. I am so fucked right now.' If Preston's brother tells his parents how old I am and about our jokes and innuendos, I might face federal prison time. If he started recording outside the door earlier and he is still filming, I will absolutely get federal prison time. ' _Merde!_ '

"Shut the fudge up and get the frick out. You're not funny, dude." Preston gets up and tries to gently push his brother back out of his room, but it only encourages him to get closer to the computer.

"Naw, I'm hilarious. You never let me meet any of your little internet friends and it hurts my feelers, bro." He strolls over and plops right down in Preston's beloved red gaming chair, unplugging the headphones from the sound system and propping his dirty feet up centimeters from the brand new keyboard that it had taken his brother two months to buy. I can see Preston standing behind him, his face bright red and frozen in a glower. He is completely livid. "So you're the amazing 'Rob the Flower King' that Pressy and the kiddies are always talking about. I heard you like two kinds of pansies." My blood runs cold and I thank the many gods that Preston isn't just like his older brother. Darryl might be a soulless bastard, but at least he was never a piss poor bully.

'I absolutely cannot afford to screw this up. If this was any more dangerous, it would have electrified barbed wire around it. If I can deal with Angela, I can deal with Daka Arsehead.'

"Yes, of course. It's nice to finally meet you. Preston talks about you all of the time." He looks confused for a moment, unable to make sense of my answer. Meanwhile, Preston is beyond humiliated in the background, settling for a spot at the end of his bed, his face magenta in chagrin.

"Really? Now there's a surprise. So what'd he tell you?" Preston's eyes widen in horror and he stares into the camera, pleading for me to stop. He would be shaking his head furiously if he knew Daka couldn't see him on the monitor.

"He talks about your deployments and your awards. He always says how proud he is to have a brother who chose to serve his country and followed his dad into service." Preston still looks mortified, but his panic is beginning to fade away. At this point, I am just glad he trusted me enough to keep his mouth shut and let me handle it, a serious accomplishment in his case. I don't think he understands how bad this situation could turn out.

"Aww, now isn't that cute. I didn't know you loved me, bro." He glances behind him at Preston, who glares daggers at him and silently points to the door. Daka just scoffs and turns back to the monitor, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Did Pressy tell you I said congrats?"

"For what?"

"On your baby. I know you two've been at it for a while. You must be so proud." He nudges Preston in the stomach with his big toe, his other foot moving closer to the expensive keyboard, warding off a counterstrike.

'If looks could kill, this guy would have been tortured and burnt alive a hundred times.'

"Oh, definitely. Our baby is so beautiful that I cry every time I see it." I watch both of their faces twist in bewilderment as I lean out of the shot, carefully grabbing Procyon from the other end of the desk, the blue galaxy designer shell Preston had bought me for my birthday glimmering in the light. I hold the computer lovingly to my chest in front of the camera and Preston starts laughing at Daka's first puzzled, then annoyed look. He knows that, as long as I am the one trolling his brother, he is absolved of any backlash. "I love my baby."

"Wow, how'd you get that beaut? Is that what he was knocked up with over the summer, or did he buy it for you?" He looks pointedly over at Preston, as if he is waiting for a semi-serious answer. Is he actually suspicious of my friendship with his brother? I gently set the computer back on its shelf, wiping a smudge off of the top of its cover.

"It's an early 2010 model. I bought it before we met. Preston is just a little salty that he doesn't have one yet," I reply as evenly as I can, holding back the indignation his last comment sparked. I may not look immaculate or rich, but I get tired of everyone assuming that I am destitute and unable to buy my own things. "He did buy me the cover, though. He cares about my baby." Preston smirks in the background, no doubt remembering the fire faux leather seat covers I had sent him for his car after I realized that he had bought me a birthday present and I had not returned the favor. Preston is to cars as I am to computers, and my star-covered, twilight blue, top-of-the-line Mac is my heart and soul.

"How do you guys handle custody? Wait, I get it. You just met up again at that gaming show in July so Pressy's get another one in the oven. That's why you're so moody and hungry, innit?" He goes to poke him in the stomach again, but Preston crosses his arms over the spot with a disgusted expression on his face. "Is that why you're so butthurt about everything all the time? You played the wrong kind of demo at the convention? Not everything with a joystick is a video game, bro."

"How long'd it take for you to figure that out, Dak? Can you please leave? We were in the middle of doing something when you showed up." Preston's horror is quickly fading into irritation, and we both feel that his brother has overstayed any welcome he may have had.

"What were you up to? If you don't be careful that mouse is gonna make your wrist limper than it already it. The Bieber hair is bad enough, Pressy, wouldn't want you to get a lisp and start speakin' ze French, too. You're faggy enough already." Preston laughs and that just pisses me off even more. How ignorant can this guy be? Even worse, who is that cracking up behind him? Preston wouldn't gay bash, would he? Could he really be so clueless?

"Okay, you're calling _me_ a fag? You're the one who sits in a room with eleven other guys circle jerking until the sun comes up every day. If anyone here's a fag, it's definitely you, Dak. You're just AIDS." I obviously don't know Preston as well as I thought I did. Who is this person?

"Look who's talkin'. You're the one who plays with flowers and rainbow animals on Minecraft every fucking day. The only way you'd be gayer is if you changed your name to 'Presilla' and started wearing make-up." Preston scoffs again and rolls his eyes, pointing to the door a second time.

"Can you get out now? Please? I don't want you leaving skid marks on my chair."

"Hey, I'm gonna be gone until January. I have to get my money's worth before I leave." Daka slides his bare foot off of the desk and slowly stands up, stretching as he ambles his way over to the door, his phone clutched in his big, square hand. To my relief, its screen is black and blank. "Nighty-night, Pressy. And try to keep it down so the normal people can sleep. No one else wants to hear your moaning and your cock fights with your boyfriend in Canada."

"Out!" Daka stops at the door, waving sarcastically at the camera while Preston shoves him out and closes the door after him, ensuring that it is locked this time. He lets out a sigh of relief and jumps back in his chair, reconnecting his headphones and brushing a dusty footprint off of the top of his desk. "Sorry he's such a jerkwad. He's just salty he has to go back up to Washington and I get to stay here and chillax. Are you ready to get back to work?"

'What do I say to him? I actually have nothing to say to Preston.' I am so pissed off at him right now I can hardly think, but more than anything, I'm hurt. 'I was never friends with him, not really. How could he not have known, with all the time we have spent together in the last year and all the times I all but told him? Now that I know he still thinks I'm straight and I know what he thinks of queer people, how would he react if I told him I was bi? What do I say to him now?'

* * *

 **October 3, 2011 at 10 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Rob?" He didn't answer my question so I look over at him on Skype. He's just sitting there, leaning on the arm of his chair with this unreadable expression on his face. I've never seen him act like this. Did Dak somehow manage to piss off MrWoofless? My brother is a freakin' legend if he pulled _that_ off. Rob's still analyzing me and his eyes look… defeated? Angry? Tired? What's up with him? "Are you ready to get back to work? I think I figured it out."

"There are just so many things… Just no. No."

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what'? Where have you been for the last five minutes?" His voice isn't raised but he sounds really sarcastic when he says it, like he's daring me to say something back.

"Jeez. Chill out, dude. What's wrong?" He isn't scary when he's mad like I thought he'd be, but the fact that he's so upset just makes me feel really bad. Seeing him like this is even worse than having him flat out yelling at me.

"You're kidding me. You are absolutely fucking kidding me. Right?" He sounds beyond salty, more like acidic, and I lower my voice before I reply.

"I know he's kind of a jerk but what can I do about it? He's my brother and-"

"No, Preston, it's _you_ I am pissed off at. He can do and say whatever he wants to, but I expected better from _you_." That's what that look on his face is: it's disappointment. It's my least favorite feeling in the whole freaking world and Rob being disappointed in me just burns my soul in a thousand different places. He's my best friend and my partner in crime and my mentor and I look up to him, and making him disappointed really, really hurts.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what I did." My voice sounds small and pathetic and he just leans forward and huffs while he runs his hand through his messy brown hair like he always does when he's frustrated. "I'm sorry."

"Preston, I… I don't even know what to say."

"Then just say something." He looks at me again but this time he just looks sad. I was right – this is so much worse than him screaming at me. I've never wanted to apologize so much in my life but it's just making it worse because I don't know what I'm apologizing for. Whatever it is, I wanna take it back and pretend it never freaking happened. "Just say something. Anything."

"I would, but you wouldn't want to hear it."

"Who cares if I wanna hear it. I need to hear it." He sighs and leans back in his chair, his hand resting against the side of his jaw with that guarded look on his face he always gets when we do Battledomes. He's on the defensive and I already know I'm not gonna like what he says.

"You can't… You can't say things like that, Preston. I know I am a little too PC for your taste and you don't like it when people tell you what you can and can't say, but… You can't say things like that." I think back to our conversation with Daka but I can't think of anything really offensive I said. It's just stuff everyone says, even my friends and Mom and Dad sometimes. Why's he making a big deal out of this?

"I don't get it. Why are you mad?" Rob just sits there and looks at me for a second, like he's trying to decide whether he should say something or just keep his mouth shut. If we're still friends after this, I should seriously ask him to teach me how to do that.

"You need to watch what you say and how you say it, and some things should just never be said to begin with. Sometimes your first impressions about people are wrong, and you might offend them if you poke fun at something sensitive like sexual orientation." I must look confused because he continues even though he sounds like he doesn't want to. "You wouldn't tell an Auschwitz joke to a Jewish person, so you shouldn't tell an AIDS joke to a queer person." I just stare at him, trying to put the pieces together and he stares back, studying me. I know I probably look like a complete jack-all when it finally clicks but he doesn't say anything. He just keeps watching me, waiting.

"What? So you're gay?" It sounds so weird to say it. It feels even weirder to think it.

"Yes, and no. I think of myself as bi, even though I prefer guys."

"Oh. I thought it was just a joke and… Oh."

"Oh."

"Wait, does that mean all those times you said…?"

"We were only kidding around, Preston. Don't flatter yourself too much." He still looks unsure but some of his humor is coming back and his eyes look gentle again. It's going to take a while to get used to it, but he's still my best friend. It's just really weird thinking of him like that. With a guy. Or guys. Making out. Doing things. Now stop it!

Daka can _never_ find out about this. _Ever_. We would both be so royally freakin' screwed if he found out my best friend likes guys. He'd never stop barging in during recordings and making awful jokes. He'd probably pick the lock just so he could drop in and insult us some more. If what Dak said today pissed Rob off, I can't let them meet again and risk having him say even worse stuff – what he said today was pretty tame for him. I need to keep him away from Rob at all costs.

"Oh. Okay."

"You look a little freaked out." I shake my head a little too enthusiastically and I kinda wish I didn't have my webcam turned on or I had a pause button or something. I don't wanna screw this up and make him hate me. "It really isn't that big of a deal, or at least I don't think it is. It doesn't change anything. I just… I wasn't sure how you would react."

"It doesn't matter. I still love you, dude." We both look a little surprised as soon as it leaves my mouth, but it's the truth. He's like my best friend and my business partner and the perfect older brother all rolled into one, and he could tell me he was secretly a Russian serial killer cow with twenty personalities and he'd still be my favorite person of life. "It's just different. I'll get used to it, don't worry about it." He nods and seems mostly content but still worried, like I might be toying with him or something.

My family isn't exactly pro-gay but they don't sit around quoting Bible verses about it, either. They're just sort of against it and think it's bad and wrong, but this is Rob we're talking about. He isn't bad in any way, shape, or form. He's like the exact opposite of bad and he's always so freaking nice and kind and generous and friendly. If Rob's gay, then gay people can't be bad. On the other hand, that isn't something I know a whole lot about. I think part of the reason this's such a huge deal is because I don't know any other gay people, except for that glammy guy last year in English and that manly girl who's in my weight training class but I never really talked to either of them. Rob's just a regular guy and we have pretty much everything in common, but I'm not gay. It's just weird that he was there in plain sight the whole time and I didn't know he was really gay or bi or whatever he is. He hid it by passing it off as a joke and it's frickin' brilliant.

"Can we keep this between us? I don't want other people to know, especially the viewers."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. I wouldn't do something like that." He nods and we just sit there for a few seconds in silence before he leans forward and grabs his mouse, ready to start grinding fossils again. "You know, I still wanna see your bone." He tries to fight back the smile, but he fails just like he always does.


	12. Chapter 12

**October 6, 2011 at 5 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Uno." Keeley waves her last card in front of Josh's face so he can see her next move and his grin gives away her perfect poker face. Like all the little decisions in our family, the kids' chauffeur is being chosen by a best-of-three Uno tournament and this round is gonna decide my fate. I really don't wanna go sit at the mall forever while those two go shopping with their birthday money but neither does Dad so… By the looks of it I'm the chosen one. I glance down at my handful of cards and play a blue three while I hope for the best. She throws down another wild card and they high five each other and do a dumb little dance.

"GG. Now go get your junk. We're going now or never." I throw my stack of cards down and sigh and they run out of the room and up the stairs like rats in a maze. Why does it always have to be me? And Josh's gonna be hungry by the time we get done and he's gonna expect me to buy food for all of us and he'll make a gigantic mess in my car again. I know that kid like the back of my freaking hand. I toss the Uno cards in their little metal tin and put it back in the closet. Dad turns away from his show to look at me with that 'I told you so' look he always has. "We're goin' to the mall. You want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good. Have fun and behave yourself, kid." I just look at him and grab my coat off the coat tree and head out to my newly-paid-off car. I walk around it and brush the dead leaves off the hood before I jump in. I pull out my phone while I wait for the other two to get done doing whatever they're doing, and I look up to see if they're coming before I start texting.

 _Me: I dont know whats worse, precalc or nighttime mall adventures with the sibs. Save me plz?_

As soon as I send it, the front door slams shut and they come running over to my car with big grins on their faces like it's their birthdays all over again. I would've taken them, anyway, even if I'd won just because I know Dad wouldn't've wanted to go chill at the mall right after he got off work. I'm not spoiled enough to sit at home and make him do that.

"Let's go, let's go!" Josh yells as he slides into the backseat with his grody freakin' tennis shoes he wore to PE today. I swear, when I move out and get my own place there'll be no greasy kids in my clean car. I roll my eyes and wait for them to put their belts on before I peel out of the driveway and head over to the stupid mall. Who the frick wants to go shopping at a mega mall in Dallas-Fort Worth on a Monday at dinnertime when all the crazies are gonna be milling around? I don't get it.

"So what're you gonna get, Preston?" Keeley asks as she digs around in her purse for something. I hope she didn't forget her freaking money because I don't wanna have to drive all the way back home.

"Nothing. _I_ don't have a butt ton of birthday cash to waste like you two. I'm el broko until like the fifteenth or something. What're you gonna get?" She just shrugs and looks back at Josh and he shrugs, too.

"I wanna see what they have on sale first, but I was thinking about getting a tablet at Apple. I'd use that more than I'd use more clothes." I must look shocked or something because she smacks me gently on the arm with a grin on her face. Keeley doesn't want more clothes? Is she sick? Nah, she's probably just jealous of Daka's iPhone and wants to outdo him before he gets home. He left for Washington again yesterday and I miss the guy, but I don't miss the guy. He's my bro and I love him but… I need a freaking break from him. "You know, instead of making that face at me, you might wanna find some decent clothes to wear to your convention. You still dress like a five-year-old and it's just sad."

"Well, feel free to buy me some. I told ya, I'm broke." She rolls her eyes and Josh snickers from the backseat. I forget how alike we all are until I'm stuck with them for a whole afternoon – it's like seeing two younger versions of myself. I wonder what Mom and Dad think when we do the same things they do and say all the same stuff. I wonder if it freaks them out a little bit. I wonder if Mom gets sad when I do things my bio dad used to do. Now that's just a trip and a half I don't wanna take right now. It might make me a big baby that I don't like to think about it, but you know what? I'm still not gonna think about it.

"I'm gonna preorder that special edition Legend of Zelda 3DS Caleb saw online and get some new games. I'm sick of playing all your old stuff. It's ancient!"

"Video games, yeah boy!" At least one of them'll carry on my legacy long after I move out. I bet Mom's really thrilled about me getting Josh and Caleb into gaming when she thought she'd get a break from it after she got rid of me. She might try to stuff them in a box on the truck and send 'em along to my apartment. Her and Dad are probably really looking forward to me moving out in June because they won't have to listen to me when I record stuff late at night or when I lose my ish and rage or laugh myself silly at something Rob says. I've cried more in the last year than I have since I was a baby, I'm telling you. He just knows how to get to me and break my funny bone and it's _bad_. "Okay, last stop, everyone off." They put their phones away and I pull into the first spot I find at the mall, but it's like forty cars away from the door. Josh's too psyched to care but Keeley gives me her 'you're kidding' face.

"Let's go, guys! If we hurry we might get to get smoothies before Jamba closes!"

"Yeah, with what money?" He doesn't hear me, though, because he's already out of the car and slamming the door shut. Keeley slowly takes her seatbelt off and she's still looking at me with that Mom glare she always uses. "You two wanted to go tonight. It's busy. What'd you expect?" She rolls her eyes again and follows Josh out of the car and I take my sweet time getting out. If Dak can tease me all the frickin' time and get away with it, I can be a troll every now and then to the young'uns, too.

"Pressy, hurry up!" Josh's almost bouncing up and down in impatience and Keeley's getting ticked off, too. I slowly lock my car and start strolling after them while they scowl back at me every so often to see if I'm still coming.

"Where're we going first?" Keeley asks when we finally make it up to the doors and I just shrug. I walk past them and make a beeline for the first bench I see and put my feet up and pull out my phone. "You aren't coming?"

"Why would I? I'm flat butt broke and there's nothing I want. I said I'd drive you. I never said anything about playing pack mule, Keels. Buh-bye." She does that squinty little glare that used to get her her way with Dad but I just wave at her. "Make sure you watch Josh and don't let him swipe anything or it comes outta _your_ funds."

"You know, maybe you should join the Navy, too."

"Ouch," I reply and I make a sad face at her and unlock my phone to show her it's not up for discussion. My butt is staying firmly planted right here on this hard freaking bench until they're done being hyperactive little brats. She sticks her tongue out at me and they walk away, leaving me in front of a picked-over Macy's. I look down at my phone and see that Rob finally wrote back:

 _Woof-Woof: At least you get to stare at all of the glorious Alan Wake posters and drool. ;)_

 _Me: Don't you know it bby. All my dreams. ~[heart]_

 _Woof-Woof: B-but Poofless?!_

 _Me: Dead, dead like PS2._

 _Woof-Woof: D':_

 _Woof-Woof: [broken heart]_

 _Me: No crys bby, I only jokes. I love you more than Alan Wake._

 _Woof-Woof: Aww. More than COD?_

 _Me: Lets not get ahead of ourselves here._

 _Woof-Woof: You're a terrible person._

 _Woof-Woof: I'll talk to you later after I find some breakfast. Don't start making out with the cardboard cutouts: security doesn't like that._

 _Me: How would you know?_

 _Woof-Woof: ;)_

I grin and decide to let him wake up before he falls back asleep. Waking up at six at night to record sounds awesome – no noise, no phone calls, no interruptions, nothing but solitude. I'm totally doing that when I move. For not having a job, Rob has some great ideas. I pull my earbuds out of my shirt and put one side in and turn on some music to kill the time. I'm exhausted from weight training and I just wanna be lazy and chill and not do anything until I get home, then I have to record a couple quick videos with Rob to post later this week. If it was anyone else I would've just canceled and they'd have to track down someone else to record with, but he has woken up to help me out more than a couple times so I can't do that to him.

I look around at the people and the stores next to me and there's so much nice stuff I couldn't afford before I started YouTube. I don't even wanna look down at my unholy t-shirt and sweatpants and it doesn't look like anyone else wants to look at me, either. I _could_ use some new clothes since all my old stuff is too baggy and full of holes and it makes me look like a hobo. It's probably not a good idea to show up to meet fans and other Tubers in grody old rags. That'd look bad. Maybe I should take Keeley's advice and stop in here before I try to go to the convention in three-year-old saggy elephant clothes that are covered in Coke stains and don't fit anymore. But I don't wanna ask her to come with me and end up with oodles and oodles of overpriced stuff I won't ever wear. This would've been a good time to have Rob around…

Wait, why am I even thinking that? For being gay Rob has to be even more color blind than Jerome. All he ever wears is the same five t-shirts and that stupid blue sweater and the same pairs of jeans and pajama pants, and all of it's either black or blue. Even his Minecraft skin has black and blue clothes. He's like a freaking cartoon character with the same stuff on every single day and I bet he could fit every piece of clothing he owns in a suitcase with his Mac and just disappear into the sunset one day. He's the least stereotypical gay guy I've ever seen and that's fine, but we both dress like ten-year-old nerdy fanboys and it's awful. For being as smart and experienced at the Tubez as he is, the guy has no fashion sense at all. But then again, I guess I shouldn't be talking.

If I'm gonna be honest, I'm still not really over him being gay or whatever. It's only been a couple days and it was kind of shocking. Well, I mean it's not like Hulk Hogan came out of a super-sized closet so it wasn't _that_ big of a surprise, but I still wasn't expecting it. Even though he didn't change he seems different now, like he's gentler and less macho than he was before, which sounds really strange but it's true. I don't wanna say that liking guys makes him less of a man, but he somehow seems less threatening. I dunno, it's like I'm not in competition with him anymore even though I totally am, because if I didn't really try he'd hand my butt back to me in most of the games we play together. Did not need that imagery there. Maybe I'm just so used to being around manly men like Dak and Sam and Dad and my weight training coach that guys like Rob who just don't give a frick seem really weird. Whatever it is, it feels like I can relax around him more than I could before, like he's more trustworthy or mellow or something and I don't have to be such a try-hard to impress him. I can't describe it but it's different, I know it is.

He's still Rob – he's always been Rob – but now it's like there's this whole other side of him I didn't know about before. He let me in on this huge secret that really isn't a secret, and he trusts me not to rat him out even though he knows I have a big mouth and he always makes fun of me for it. And I guess knowing that about him makes me want to protect him somehow, even though I know he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself and _he's_ usually the one taking care of _me_. Now that I know about him liking guys, I just wanna punch anyone who's mean to him about it right in the side of the head, and that includes Daka. Even though I've only known him for like ten months, Rob has done so freaking much for me and helped me reinvent my channels, and he's pulled me out of all kinds of bad situations before I could really screw myself over. I can't suddenly forget all that just because Daka lives in the same house as me. Dak might be my skin-and-blood brother, but Rob's my online other-brother and I don't think I can choose between them, even though Rob would be easier to live with.

It's really weird thinking about it: just a couple days ago I was making fag jokes with Dak but now even thinking about that just pisses me off. There's no way I'll be able to stop saying stuff like that all of a sudden because it's gonna take a while to sink in, but I swear I'll stop. I guess I never really thought about what I was saying until I realized who I was talking about and how bad it really was. It's funny how something can go from being hilarious to making you sick as soon as you meet one of the people you've been joking about all along and see how mean and untrue it is. Well, some of it might be true and even Rob might play some of it up, but he should be the one who draws the line because he's the one who has to live with it, not me, not Daka, not the viewers.

It's so weird how everything changed forever in less than a minute. It's not bad, it's just different. I'm trying to make sense of it but I keep going around and around in circles. It's like for some reason I thought gay people were this whole other species of humans with green skin, but they aren't that different after all. They're just like everyone else. But what I hate the most is that, if I hadn't gotten to know him first and we hadn't got to be such good friends, I probably would've just sat there and made fun of him with all these other bullies. And that really scares me.

I think I'm starting to get that dog metaphor Jerome used last year. I'm probably crazy for thinking about it so much, but when you're surrounded by all these big Tubers with all these followers and all this experience, you tend to listen to them a little more than you usually would (or should). And you know, he's right. Rob's like this huge Saint Bernard who's all fluffy and sweet and cute with these big, sad brown eyes and everyone just wants to give him a hug and be friends, but I always act like this ugly, macho little ratty Taco Bell Chihuahua with this annoying bark and I just wanna bite everything and no one wants to be my friend. Now that I know Rob's just an oversized, cuddly ball of fur that scares everyone into submission and he isn't gonna go full Cujo on me and eat me, and Master Jerome knows I won't scratch anyone's eyes out, everything's chill and we're all good. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get upgraded to something better than a Chihuahua, like a Rottweiler or a pit bull or something, 'cause no quiero Taco Smell.

Okay, now this is just getting really weird again, even for something the Bac said. You know it's bad when you're weirding yourself out. I look around at the people walking past me but everyone's still ignoring me, and that's fine. I check my phone and no one texted me while I was spaced out so I'm clear to chill again for a while. I watch the Hunger Games wallpaper of me, Rob, Mitch, and Jerome fade as my phone locks again and I must look really dumb and cheesy sitting here smiling at my phone.

Do those other two know about Rob? The Bacca would have to know, right? That's another can of worms I really shouldn't open but it's already open and now I'm screwed. Jerome does the same fake flirty thing with Mitch that Rob does with me and he's really, really, _really_ overprotective of Benja. They're always together and they finish each other's sentences and know each other's coffee orders and school schedules and everything. Are they a thing? Is Jerome gay for Mitch? He doesn't seem like he'd be gay, but after this week I'm not real confident in my judgment Who else is gay I don't know about? Wow, when you think about it, it could be anyone, even someone like Daka who jokes about it and puts it down all the time. This is getting really deep and I'm not usually a deep person.

That's what she said. Dang it, that was supposed to be serious, not funny. This is what happens when you spend so much time on the internet: the memes slowly take control of your brain and they just randomly pop up in your thoughts in the worst freaking places, especially when you're tired. It makes me wonder, though… Do gay people have different memes? Would a gay guy say 'that's what he said' instead? Aw, crap, I said I wasn't gonna go there. I don't wanna go there. It looks like I'm gonna go there. I don't wanna think about what Rob does in the bedroom, it's none of my business and I don't wanna see it when I close my eyes at night. But every time Dak makes that stupid joke about me looking pregnant I picture that horrifying preggo Rob with his hands on his big belly and that dumb sideways grin on his face and then I think about what he had to have done to get pregnant and then I just wanna stick my head in the bucket of chocolate fudge ice cream at Baskin Robbins and gorge until I puke to make myself forget what I just saw. But then it'd be like morning sickness and ugh!

When it gets going, my brain never stops and it sucks. But not that kind of 'suck,' not like he would… Okay, just stop it, Preston. Just stop now and everything's gonna be fine. You can't unsee it, but you don't have to see any more. Just chillax and stop thinking about it before someone comes over and asks if you're having a stroke or something. My face has to be redder than Ronald McDonald's wig but I can't help it. But why would he wanna do something like that? Doesn't it hurt? How can he sit at his computer all day after letting a guy do that to him? What does he do when he doesn't have a boyfriend? Does he still…? Ah, jeez. Well, I'm never gonna be able to see a microphone the same way again. This frickin' train of thought never ends and it just gets worse and worse and it's ruining everything for me. My phone vibrates on my lap and it scares me and lights up a whole other category of thoughts I don't wanna think about.

 _Woof-Woof: Preston, stop drooling. It looks like Niagara Falls over there._

He couldn't possibly know what I was thinking about, right? I wasn't drooling, I was having a waking nightmare and it was scarier than the last Silent Hill, and that's just talking about the sound effects. No, don't go there. Preston Blaine Arsement, don't you _dare_ go there! Even Mom screaming at me in my mind to keep it kosher and Metallica blaring through my headphones isn't enough to drown out the sound of Rob moaning in my head. Now it feels like my insides are on fire to match my face. What did I do to deserve this? I don't deserve this. This is the cruelest and most unusual punishment ever, and I just want it to stop.

 _Woof-Woof: You okay, babe? :P''''_

 _Me: Shut the fudge up and you dont know how to draw neither!_

 _Woof-Woof: Poor, angry little cactus. Did you get the posters signed?_

 _Me: Yes dad. I did. Did you send my check yet?_

 _Woof-Woof: ?_

 _Me: I didnt just sign all those for free. Youll get em when I get my dues._

I know he'd be giving me those big sorry eyes of his if we were on Skype, but that don't work through texts. I'm waiting for him to send me a picture of him making a sad face just to try to make me feel guilty. It's not my fault everyone and their dog in Canada wanted me to sign a poster for them. Maybe he should've thought about that before he agreed to do it and made my hand fall off from scribbling my name on everything in sight. I'm just glad for the free publicity.

 _Woof-Woof: You know that I'm just as broke as you are. If you stop being so prickly, I might buy you lunch at the expo._

 _Me: Im a cactus, what did you expect. Sorry but all payments must be made through 7-10 days before shipping._

 _Woof-Woof: You have got to be kidding me. I paid the shipping. You don't want to come with me to eat Five Guys?_

Well, that just took on a whole new meaning. RIP my favorite lunch place, too. Thanks a lot Rob, for freaking infiltrating every corner of my brain and life now.

 _Me: Sorry but I dont date derps._

 _Woof-Woof: It isn't just a date if I sign your papers, babe._

I can see him sitting there with that self-satisfied, smarmy little smirk and I just wanna put one of Keeley's waxing strips on his face and rip it off. We'll see who's smirking then.

 _Me: Fine Ill go but I wont like it. :(_

 _Woof-Woof: That's what you always say. ;)_

"Here, ya big crybaby. Let's go home," Keeley demands as she shoves a huge pineapple banana smoothie in my face, then starts walking to the car while she drinks some kind of green stuff from Starbucks with a couple little bags hanging off her arms. Josh's chugging on a smoothie, too, and I swear he'll never ride in my car again if he spills it.

 _Me: They finally came back so Ill see you on Skype in a few. Stay handsome._

 _Woof-Woof: [heart]_

Mom and Dad would have a serious hissy fit if they ever saw our texts because they wouldn't see that we're just joking around. Good thing I pay my own phone bill. I slide my phone in my pocket and take a couple big drinks of the greatest smoothie ever before I start following the other two back to the car. Now if I could just fill my bathtub up with this stuff and sit in it for a while, maybe my legs wouldn't hurt so much from lifting.


	13. Chapter 13

**Severe Trigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic imagery, so if you are easily triggered or if you have a weak stomach, I encourage you to click away. I gave this story an M rating for a reason. Please take a look at the story description for an updated list of warnings.**

* * *

 **March 15, 2012 at 7 PM, San Antonio, TX: Rob**

"Uggggghhh," Preston moans as he buries his face in the pillow and flails his arms pathetically, his shoulders falling as he lets out a huge sigh. This is only our first day at PAX South and all of us are extremely exhausted, having flown in just this morning from a gaming expo in California. At this point, I am unbelievably envious of Nooch, the only member of our group who had been too broke to afford plane fare to follow us here. I wish I could be at home, snuggling with small, furry animals and getting on with life as usual. Don't get me wrong – I love conventions – but attending two conventions back-to-back is just too much to handle, even for the indefatigable lava mob. "Uggggggggggggggghhhhhhh!"

"Can I help you, kohai?" Preston flails his entire body this time, bouncing on his bed like an angry Magikarp. After a few seconds, he stops and turns his head a few centimeters to look over at me, one dark eye peeking out from the dent in the pillow.

"I need noms. Buy me food."

"Buy your own food. You've made more money this week than I have. Where is all of your t-shirt money?" This is not the answer he wanted because he gives another pitiful flail and turns to stare at me with both eyes this time, his face slightly flushed. Although I am the only one who can tolerate Preston for hours upon hours, I am beginning to think that sharing a room with him for three days may have been a mistake. I have never seen him act so stilted and uncomfortable before.

"Plz senpai. I fan. Love me." We lock eyes for a few seconds before I sigh and set my phone down on my bed next to me, ensuring that it is locked before I leave it unattended.

"Fine, but next time, _you_ are paying. This is draining me dry, Perston." I slowly stagger to my feet and shamble over to the door, watching him behind me in the mirror as I leaf through the stack of brochures and advertisements to find the room service menu. When I finally find it, I slowly return to my spot on the bed to find that he has flopped over onto his back, his eyes following me as I move. There are times when Preston is easier to read than a large print book, but today the book is written in invisible ink. It feels like he is holding something back, like he is waiting for something. He seems uncertain, even nervous, but that is so unlike him I must not be reading him right. Does sharing a room with me make him this uneasy? "What do you want?"

"Hmm?" He blinks and his eyes snap away from my face, his arm coming up to rest on his forehead while his other hand beckons for me to hand him the menu. I feel my eyebrows shoot up and I hand it over, resting my aching feet on the end of his bed while I wait. The way he has been acting today is strange even for him and he is starting to worry me. "This stuff sucks. What else is there?"

"Unless you plan on going to get it, nothing. My ass isn't moving from this bed until I can feel my feet again." I scoot back up to my spot at the head of the bed and rest my back against the headboard, his eyes still following my every move. "What is it going to be?"

"I want Five Guys. We always get Five Guys. Can we get some real food? Please?" he whines as he leans around the gaudy lamp on the table to show me his best pouty face. If this guy was any more adorable, he would exist only in anime.

"Are you going to carry me there?"

"Frick no."

"Then I'm not going. There is no way in hell I am going to hobble downstairs, pay for a cab, _and_ pay for both of us to eat. It just doesn't work that way, Plebston."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

" _Please_?" He is actually down on his knees pleading with me now, with those big, coffee brown eyes staring sorrowfully up at me from the floor next to my bed, his hands clasped together like in prayer. Dad must be teaching him tricks on the side because I almost feel bad denying him his dream dinner.

" _No_."

"Plz senpai, _por favor_."

" _Non_. I am not Superman, nor am I made of money. Make me a deal I can't refuse." He sighs and the pout disappears, but the sad eyes are still going strong.

"Fine, ya cactus. I'll pay for dinner if you go with me to get it." I pretend to think about it for a moment, then I shake my head furiously.

"Nope. Not worth it, babe. Sorry." He rolls his eyes and puts his head down on his hands until he comes up with a better plan.

"I'll pay for dinner _and_ the taxi. Now will you go?" I shake my head again and his eyes widen in exasperation, like he had been sure I would give in this time. "What the freak do you want? I'm paying for everything!"

"I told you, you have to carry me." He just looks at me, as if he isn't sure if I am joking or not. I wiggle my socked feet next to his arm and he just scowls up at me.

"You're such a troll, dude. I don't even know why I… Come here." He gets up to walk away, but seems to change his mind halfway through. He stoops over and picks me up and starts carrying me bridal-style to the door, his face balanced somewhere between pissed off and mildly amused. "I can't _believe_ you sometimes. No wonder you don't have a frickin' job!"

"If you were any more gullible, I swear you would evolve into Wingull. Just let me get my shoes and I will go with you. Jeez!" He drops me onto my feet so suddenly I almost wipe out and we laugh like idiots while I slide my shoes on and grab my phone from the bed. Preston's hatred of being alone is endearing to me, especially when he goes out of his way to try to persuade someone to go with him. Honestly, he probably would have carried me all the way downstairs if I had let him, and he still would have thought he had gotten the better end of the deal. It makes me wonder how he is going to handle moving out of his parents' house in June, if he will be able to cope with so much loneliness. Knowing Preston, he would start another YouTube channel to make more work for himself, just so he wouldn't notice how alone he felt.

We lock the door, leaving the lights on so any passersby will think we are still in our room. In the elevator, I lean against the hand rail to take the weight off of my sore feet, trying to hold in a sigh of relief. Preston pulls out his phone and looks up directions to the nearest Five Guys, his hands absent-mindedly straightening out his shirt and jacket and smoothing down his messy hair. He looks good when he dresses up and wears something other than a t-shirt, and I can definitely see why he has as many fans crushing on him as Mitch does.

"Hey, Rob?" he says, looking up from his phone with a guilty smile on his face. "There's a Five Guys like two blocks from here. Do we _really_ need a taxi?" I close my eyes and sigh, trying to ignore my pounding, protesting feet. I can already feel the regret come tomorrow morning.

"No, I guess not. You are still buying dinner."

"Yeah, I know. And I might even get you something to drink now."

"You are _so_ lucky I like you so much, you cactus."

"Yeah, yeah. Hurry up and stop being a pleb. I'm about ready to die of hunger." As soon as the elevator opens he's off, power-walking to the restaurant while I try to shuffle along beside him. At least it seems like he is back to his usual energetic, unapologetic self.

* * *

 **March 15, 2012 at 10 PM, San Antonio, TX: Preston**

How can he not be cold sleeping like that? He just waltzed right into the hotel room and plopped down on his bed and passed out with his shoes still on and his phone still in his hand. That was over an hour ago and he hasn't budged an inch. Well, he didn't sleep for two days so I guess that's part of it, but he's just wearing a t-shirt and those really tight jeans and it's freaking cold in here. The one day he doesn't wear that dumb blue sweater has to be the coldest day of the month. And he isn't just laying on the bed – he's sprawled out like he jumped off a skyscraper and went ker-splat on the ground with his arms and legs all going different directions. I should take a picture of this and post it all over Twitter and Facebook and everything because it's just too awesome not to. But then he'd give me those sad puppy dog eyes and I'd have to take it all down, so I just lower my phone and sigh at his derpiness.

I eventually give in to my conscience and go over and pull his dumb blue high-tops off and throw 'em in the corner and put his phone on the table, then I go over to the closet to find a blanket to throw over him so he doesn't freeze to death and haunt me forever. He looks so nice and peaceful when he sleeps, but it's kinda disturbing to see him without one of his many weird facial expressions. It's like he looks _too_ peaceful, like he's dead or something. Wow, picturing a dead Rob is even worse than picturing a pregnant one and I didn't think that was even possible. I try to shake the image of a pale and cold lifeless Rob out of my head and pull the wooly white blanket out of the closet and shut the door as quietly as I can. I walk over to his bed and unfold it and start throwing it over him, but when I get up by his head I see something that makes me freeze.

The arm he has slung over his head looks weird, like really weird. It must be the lighting because I've never seen it before but I'm definitely not seeing things now. He has this thin, pale line that stretches from his wrist all the way up to his elbow and it has all these little white cross marks going across it like every quarter inch or so. It looks like a train track, or a zipper, and it's really freaking me out. That isn't a tattoo. Tattoos aren't 3D and they don't dent in the skin around them. So is that a really huge scar? I don't know what happened to him to give him a scar like that but it looks like he was falling apart and someone stitched him back together. He looks like a stuffed animal. He never said anything about having surgery or being in an accident but it looks like he was in a really bad car wreck or hit a tree when he was skiing or something and they had to use screws to put his arm back together. But it seems too straight for that. It looks like someone sat and carefully made a perfect slice right down the inside of his arm, right down the exact middle with a completely steady hand. There's only one person I know who'd be meticulous enough to sit there and make such a perfect cut.

I quickly glance up at his face to check to see if he's still asleep, and he is. He's always so happy and full of life so how could he do something like this to himself? And judging by the size of the middle scar, this wasn't just him trying to hurt himself, either. This was a lot worse than that. Is his other arm like this, too? None of this makes any sense and I'm having a hard time coming to terms with it. Him coming out to me back in October was trippy but this is scary as hell and I wish I hadn't seen his scars. When did he do this to himself, and why? He has so much going for him so why would he try to kill himself? And who saved him? Had he put on the brakes and called 911 for himself or had it taken someone else to step in and stop him and keep him from dying? That might be the worst question of all.

No matter what I do my eyes keep getting drawn right back to those scars on his arm and I can't make myself look away. It's mesmerizing and terrifying and I just wish I could go back in time and throw the whole blanket over him at once and never see it. But then what kind of friend would I be? I have to know about this kind of thing so I can try to stop him and not let him do it again. That's what he'd do for me, and I want to be there for him and be a good person like Rob.

I look up at his face again and he's still zonked out and calm, but that's even scarier now that I can actually picture him dead and gone with a knife in his hand and blood everywhere. I get a closer look at his arm and, now that I look at it, the scars look old and faded, like the one on Dad's leg from his accident out at the Air Force base. That must be why I'd never seen it before. Maybe this happened a long time ago and he's over it. Then again, does something like that ever really go away? Did they just take him to the hospital and let him walk out after they patched him up and sewed him back together? Is he really okay or does he just look that way?

I have no clue how long I've been standing over him and staring at his arm but it feels like I've been here forever, and my whole body feels like I jumped into a pool of ice water and I haven't got used to the temperature yet. I don't know what makes me do it, it's like my arm's moving by itself, but my hand reaches down and traces the scar on his arm like it can't believe it's real. His skin is cool and smooth and electrifying under my fingers, and the scar rises up wherever it intersects with the zipper lines. I only make it about two inches before he wakes up with a jolt and snatches his arm away with an accusing look on his face, like I'm the one who cut his arm to pieces.

"What are you doing?" he asks, but it comes out more like a whimper. He's breathing hard and his pupils are blown way out so his brown eyes look black and empty. He looks completely terrified and I wish I hadn't touched him. I just want to turn and run away but I can't even move.

* * *

 **March 15, 2012 at 11 PM, San Antonio, TX: Rob**

Procyon chimes behind me and I roll my chair away from my schedule on the whiteboard to set upload dates for the newest batch of recordings. I have Skype calls in two, three, and six hours to record Thursday's videos, then two hours set aside to edit that footage. After that, I can call it a day. For now, though, I can order some late-night Chinese take-out while I catch up on my own YouTube subscriptions. Every hour is planned down to the minute and everything is working according to plan, just like it should. Now if only I could somehow drill timeliness and organizational skills into Preston's skull like I did with my YouTube business model, everything would flow smoothly and I could guarantee myself at least four hours of sleep every night.

'The day Preston grasps the concepts of time and order will be the day Mitch marries Jennifer Lawrence in The End with the Enderdragon officiating the ceremony. I might as well keep dreaming.' I smile to myself at that and submit the new round of videos, wheeling myself along the wall like Spiderman to make it back to the bigger recording desk at the other end of the narrow room. The feeling of accomplishment is overwhelming and warm, like the sun on a midsummer day. Not that I would know much about daytime: the only time I see the afternoon is when I go to holiday parties or conventions and I cannot keep to my regular schedule. I give my Skype and e-mail accounts a quick look over on Zube's screens when Procyon calls me back again, this time with an unrecognizable chime. I wheel back over to the laptop, pushing myself off from the wall like an astronaut floating up above in the Space Station. I zoom across the floor and catch myself on the doorway before I can crash unceremoniously into the wall. Something about the Mac seems off, almost threatening, and I have the urge to turn around and fly back to the other side of the room.

'This is silly. Are you afraid of computers now, too?' I muster as much bravado as I can and creep closer, not recognizing the dialogue box that had appeared on the screen. I feel as though I am about to be jumpscared, but why would that be? YouTube is still open in the background, some obnoxious movie advertisement flashing behind the little grey box. There is nothing malignant on my computer; I make sure of that every week. There is nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about. I hunch down to read the text in the pop-up:

 _To install these updates, you must restart your computer._

It seems so normal, but the 'Not Now' button's text is crimson red instead of the usual plain black, and it now says 'Not Yet.' It seems strange, but is it just me? Was it always this way and I just never noticed? I try to close the background windows, but the update box flashes ominously and refuses to let me interact with the other programs. I move my cursor over to the bright red text and prepare to click on it, such a simple, everyday action. As soon as the pad of my finger presses on the trackpad, a searing pain erupts along my left arm, a pain I had hoped I would never have to feel again.

I look down and see a thin red line along the inside of my forearm, looking like someone had played an innocuous prank and drawn on it with a Sharpie while I was sleeping. The line grows persistently bigger, longer, wider, and soon my arm is bulging out in the middle, layers of fat and flesh visible along the incision. I carefully make a fist to keep my fingers from shaking and I watch in horror as my arm splits open, revealing pulsating veins and twitching muscles, glimpses of light pink bone glimmering in the overhead light. The blood overflows now, rushing down my arm and spilling over onto the computer, splashing down onto the floor with a sickening splatter. I use my other hand to search my pocket for my phone, but by the time I find it the adrenaline has worn off. Now I am just tired – so, so tired and so, so heavy. I lean back in my chair and let the phone fall to the floor, clattering meaninglessly in the pool of scarlet blood. Black dots are dancing around the room now, growing larger by the second and snowballing together to cloud my vision.

'No, not yet. I can't go yet.'

'It doesn't matter. It never mattered. There was never any hope, and you knew that, didn't you?'

'He will never love you. None of them will. No one could love something like _you._ '

'He was right. Just let go. Just let it happen.' Another wave of white hot pain tears through my arm and I bolt upright and flinch away from the source of the agony, my eyes searching wildly for my tormentor. Preston is standing over me, his hand outstretched and his eyes full of horror.

"What are you doing?" My voice cracks when I speak and I sound beyond pathetic. He looks guilty, worried, and sad, but above all else he is terrified out of his wits. He is as pale as I feel, like he had just witnessed the nightmare I must have had a thousand times. "Preston, what are you doing?" He moves his eyes away from my arm and down toward my face, but he won't look me in the eye. What happened to him?

"I don't know," he mumbles while he looks past my right ear, his body locked in place as if he had been frozen to the floor.

"You don't know?" He shakes his head furiously and I can tell something has him seriously spooked. I have seen Preston unhappy, salty, irate, confused, ecstatic, impatient, uncomfortable, and everything in between, but I have never seen him as scared as he is right now. He looks like a frightened five-year-old on Halloween and I just want him to calm down and go back to being his usual bright, bubbly self.

"I'm sorry," he whimpers as he tries to hold back a hiccup-like sob, his eyes glass-like in the dim light.

"Now stop it. Come here." I grab his arm and pull him down on the bed next to me, and he snakes his arms around my chest and buries his head in my shoulder like a little kid. Sometimes it's hard to remember that he _is_ just a kid. He looks so small as he lays next to me and I put my arm around him, like I am protecting him from some monster in the other room. In reality, I am trying to protect him from myself. We just stay there for a while until his breathing slows and my nightmare fades away, the last vestiges of our panic and pain disappearing into space. I start to think he fell asleep until he shifts his head a little and I catch him staring up at me. "What happened?" He hesitates for a few seconds before he moves away from me and perches on the side of his bed, his face puffy from being pressed so hard against my arm. He blushes bright red and looks utterly ashamed of himself, like he is appalled at what he just did. Preston hates it when his spotless, tough, hypermasculine façade is tarnished and he acts as if he has disappointed the universe as a whole when he lets his guard down.

"I saw your arm," he says quietly, his voice tight and uneven, trying his best to hold it together. "Why?" I hold my arm up, examining the old wound that had opened like a dam in my dream. Even years of scar removal cream had only managed to blend the marks, not erase them. I suppose I should just be grateful that I can wear short sleeves again. I trace the residue of the three overlapping gashes with my eyes, automatically critiquing the scars from the stitches, evaluating my painstaking handiwork of making each stitch's mark perfectly even and parallel with all of the others. I see him studying me in the background and I let my arm fall back to my side, his dark eyes full of sorrow and uncertainty.

'He must think I am insane.'

"I had some very serious, very deep-seated issues when I was younger. The newest of these scars is about five years old. I regret what I did and I realize how horrible and selfish it was. This is nothing for you to worry about." He looks offended now, like I had just backhanded him across the face. He stands up and walks over to the foot of his bed, pacing in front of it with his hands on his hips and his eyebrows scrunched together in fury.

" 'Nothing to worry about'? What do you mean 'there's nothing to worry about'? Dangit, Rob, you look like fucking Frankenstein! How can you say 'there's nothing to worry about'?" I admit that I would rather have an angry Preston than a terrified Preston, but he is still very unpleasant when he rages. I sigh and sit up, subconsciously stiffening my left arm and bracing for the pain from the movement pulling at my ghost stitches. How sorry is it that my body knows how to deal with cutting from muscle memory?

"I have taken care of it. I went through extensive counselling in secondary school and uni, and now I take medication to deal with my depression. It will never go away entirely, just like my scars, but I have never relapsed or gone without my pills. I told you, there is nothing for you to worry about." He looks appeased but still upset, like I had betrayed his innermost secret to the world and come back just to see his reaction.

"Why would you do something like that? Was it because you liked guys? If that's what it was, you know…"

"No, that was never the problem. It's a sickness, Preston, nothing else. Depression is like diabetes but more pervasive and more terrifying. It has this control over you, like it has a mind of its own and it doesn't care what you really want or how it hurts you. Mental illness causes people to do some scary shit and not all of it makes sense. Like I said, it was a long time ago and everything is fine now, so don't worry yourself into the nuthouse about it. It isn't fun in there, trust me." He gives a weak smile and nods before he sits up straighter and glances over at me briefly before looking away again, his hands rubbing together nervously. "What's wrong?"

"I… I told you about my weight problem and how I hated myself because of it. I came out and told you all about that. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"This happened way before I met you."

"No, I mean… Why'd I have to find out like this?"

'If I had any choice in the matter, you still wouldn't know about it.'

"It hasn't been a problem recently, and it isn't something I spend a lot of time thinking about. Most days it never crosses my mind, and when it does I like to just let it keep moving along. It hurts to think about being in that state of mind, P. I don't like to talk about it, especially with people who take it to heart and try to become my babysitter." My voice takes on a steely tone and I can tell my words hurt him, yet he doesn't back down.

"It's my _job_ to make sure stuff like that doesn't happen to you. You're my brother, Rob, and I can't just sit here and watch you die!" His voice raises by an octave during the last sentence and I just want to grab him and hold him again. He pauses for a moment and clasps his hands together in front of him, his eyes locked on a spot on the floor down by his feet. "I love you too much."

"I love you, too, Preston." We sit in silence for quite a while before I continue, my fingers absent-mindedly playing with the thick, white fluff on the blanket. I know he is trying so hard to hold himself together, and who am I to deny him his dignity? "Please don't worry yourself sick over this. I feel fine and I want you to be fine, too. Don't let it get to you." He nods and continues staring at the floor, his hands slowly rubbing together while he thinks about something.

"You know what would make all this better?" he asks suddenly, scanning around the room for something. He has the beginnings of his usual grin on his face and I am grateful that he is changing the subject. Perhaps he is finally learning some tact.

"What?"

"A freaking banana split. Where's the menu?" My face breaks into a smile and I reach over to the side table and unearth the bulky brown menu he had tossed aside earlier. With any luck, this topic won't surface again. "You want peanut butter, right?"

* * *

 **If you are interested in an additional chapter (and this chapter didn't unhinge you), the next chapter in the sequence is called "Lines" and it is published in "Bonus Hearts." It was written after this point in the timeline had already passed, and it seemed too extreme to force everyone to sit through. If graphic violence and tears don't bother you, I feel like it's one of the best chapters I've written. If you aren't interested, you don't need to read it to follow the main plotline.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: This chapter briefly discusses a major event that may be a sensitive subject for some readers. This story is obviously only loosely based on facts, so please do not be offended by inaccuracies or exaggerations; we are all here to have a little fun and suspend our belief for a little while. Like Jerome, I do not claim to tell** ** _the_** **truth – I only try to parody** ** _a_** **truth.**

* * *

 **June 21, 2012 at 1 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Catch ya later, Lava P."

"Get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah. 'Night." Preston leaves the Skype call, but the salt is still hanging heavily in the air. He had been so sure of his victory, so close to sealing the win, until Jerome had called for the BenjandBac army to Order 66 him in cold blood. He may be a great PVPer and he may have gotten an iron sword near the start of the game, but he could only hold out against the piranhas for so long in a sixteen-versus-one bloodbath. Jerome is still cackling ten minutes later and I can hear him crunching on something on his end of the voice call, a habit he had picked up just to irritate Preston.

"Talk about a fucking hissy fit. How old is he now?"

"You know, when they said the oceans were going to rise a meter over the next fifty years, I don't think they meant that half of it would happen overnight. The salt levels are still rising." I can imagine Preston sitting at his desk, still fuming over his humiliating annihilation at the hands of players who barely know how to walk, let alone fight well. As soon as he gets over his disappointment, the videos will get posted and he will reach a whole new level of saltiness, and so will his fans. If Jerome's channel wasn't three times the size of Preston's, the Bacca might have taken a serious beating when the tsunami hit. A salty Preston is even more pitiful than a Humane Society commercial during the holidays, and his frustration will undoubtedly move some people into action.

"I didn't think he'd have a Darude shitstorm about it. _Jesus_."

"He's too competitive for his own good. We all are. What can I say?"

"You're all a buncha try-hards, the whole lot of ya. It's the fucking _Fridge_ , for God's sakes! What'd he think would happen when I have op commands and twenty people begging for me to type something in chat? It just had to happen." Even after knowing him for two years, his deadpan humor still gets me every time. He continues avidly munching on his food while I fight off another wave of laughter at his ridiculousness. Honestly, if he hadn't made it on YouTube, he would have found a place on-stage as a born-again George Carlin. "It's not my fault he doesn't like disco parties."

"By the looks of it, he won't be asking you to dance with him again any time soon."

"It took him long enough. Maybe a couple more massive ganks and he'll delete my Skype, too. Nobody needs his ass, anyway."

"Hey, man. Lay off."

"You always stick up for him like that? Even after he treated you like shit last year?"

"Everyone makes mistakes, especially people who are just starting out, and I don't pretend to be perfect. He's a good guy and I'm glad I gave him a second chance."

"Yeah, to stab you in the back. Watch, as soon as something bigger and brighter and shinier comes along, he's gonna leave you out on the curb and ask how high he's gotta jump for a treat. He's in it for the free ride, not the long haul. I don't trust assholes like him."

"I trust him."

"Well, that's where you're stupid. For as smart as you are, Rob, you're really a dumbass sometimes."

"Thank you. I will take that as a compliment."

"No, let's be serious for five seconds here. You _actually_ think he cares about you?"

"I like to think that my friends care about me, yes."

"That's some friend you got there, latching on and leeching you dry. He doesn't give a single fuck about you." Jerome is beginning to sound eerily like the darker half of my mind; perhaps part of me has been considering this unpleasant possibility all along. I want to think that I know the real Preston, that he truly is my best friend and that he would stand by me if a truckload of shit hit the fan. In reality, however, he has so much to gain by being my friend and so much to lose by leaving. The only way I would be able to know his true intentions would be for the power dynamic to switch – for him to support and protect me, for him to feel free to leave at any time. At the rate his Minecraft channel has been growing, it seems I will get my answer soon: I only have about eighty thousand more subscribers than he does now. "I know you don't wanna hear it, but you know I'll always tell you the truth."

"That's a bold statement, even for you. You used to claim to tell _a_ truth, but now you suddenly know _the_ truth?" He chews for a second and I can imagine him bobbing his head, that sarcastic grin on his face. It might be foolish for me to trust Jerome, Mitch, Mat, and Preston, but at some point I have to stop running and pick somewhere to start living. These friends are the best I have.

"Touché. But I think in this case I can make an exception. There's really only one version of truth here and you just don't wanna see it."

"Neither of us can say we know any truth at all, about Preston or anything else."

"Don't give me that classical skepticism shit. You took too many philosophy classes, Woof. It rotted your brains."

"What I am trying to say is that neither of us can judge him until he makes a move. I would like to think that he would choose us over someone else, but who can know until it happens?"

"And by 'us' you mean 'you.' You'd like to think he'd choose _you_ over someone else." I stay silent and take a drink of the cold coffee I had forgotten about well over an hour ago. There is nothing left for me to say. "So you're just gonna sit by and coddle him and give him everything he wants, then when the time comes you're gonna hand him a knife and act all shocked and betrayed when he uses it to stab you right in the back? That's disgusting."

"You act like you wouldn't do the same thing for Mitch."

"Mitch. Heh, I _know_ Mitch. I know Mitch more than Mitch thinks I know Mitch. And you know what? Everyone knows Mitch'd be nothing without me."

"You think that isn't just as sick and twisted? It's called trust, Jerome, and as illogical and fickle as it might be, sometimes we need it because it's all we have."

"I could put a steak on the table and trust Coco not to eat it, but everyone knows she's gonna eat it, anyway. Trust ain't worth shit, man. I'll trust someone when I have their tongue in one hand and the red button in the other." Most people find Jerome intimidating, but I just feel sorry for him. How awful must it be to always be alert, always be watching, always be perched on the edge and ready to jump into action? How painful must it be to never trust anyone, never rely on anyone, never relax even for a second?

"You don't trust me?"

"I hope I can count on you if shit goes down, but I sure as hell don't trust you. Especially when you think you're best buddies with Preston."

"I trust you."

"You really _are_ a dumbass. Look what you have in front of you: you have a grimy little sub grubber fucking you raw on one side, and a filthy Bac with your name written in his Death Note on the other. How many more kinds of screwed can you get?"

'Somewhere along the line I must have hit a nerve. He rarely gets defensive like this.' I recline in my chair and take another sip of my stale coffee, waiting for him to wind down. 'It must have been me talking about Mitch.'

"All this and we haven't even made it to the Nether yet," he adds, crunching on another mouthful of his mystery food.

"I have never been the kind of guy to sit around obsessing about Doom's Day. When the bomb drops, I will figure it out." He just laughs a sterile, sardonic laugh and sets his food down with a metal clang. He must have his face in his hands, trying to comprehend what he sees as complete nonsense.

"When the bomb drops, it's too late. Don't you get it? Don't you see what's happening here? Damn, Rob, I knew you were blasé but I never thought you were so _blind_!"

"Are you talking about Seto?" He stays silent for a moment, and I can hear him snort into his hands. "Is that what has you so stressed out?"

"If you were flying the fucking U.S.S. Enterprise, you'd be stressed out, too." He drags something across his desk and I hear him open a pop can and take a long drink. "Fucking nutcase goin' around and telling all his sob stories. I wish they'd vote him off the damn island and get it over with."

"You know it isn't just him. Given the size of Crafted, it was bound to happen eventually."

"Yeah, but he didn't hafta be the straw that knifed the camel forty times in the fucking back. Get on with it already and pick your poison."

"Did they give him a choice?" I know it would be in my best interest to let the subject drop, but I need to know how close we are to full-blown war. There has been friction since the very beginning and now that the guns are being pointed, it is only a matter of time before someone pulls the trigger. It will literally be the shot that was heard around the world, and it will echo like the Big Bang.

"They gave him an ultimatum and of course, since it's him, he's moaning like he just got the lead in the school play. He thinks if he swoons and faints like Juliet someone's gonna come down from the sky and swoop in and save his ass. And then Mitch doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut and I'm just trying to keep it all from caving in on our heads."

"Is there any chance this will all blow over?"

"You're kidding! The guy's more toast than Hiroshima. But you know what this means, right? Now you've gotta give me your tongue. I said too much and I can't risk having this get out." Is he ready to turn on me that quickly? Would he gut me and throw me aside so easily, over a little unwarranted information accidentally leaked late at night? This is how Jerome operates: he deals in secrets and dirt, and every gram of information you gain puts you in a kilogram of debt, or a guillotine.

"You have always had my tongue."

"You know the drill, Woof. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there and I'm not running a soup kitchen here. I give you something, you give me something."

"I have nothing you would want. You know everything already." This is by no means true, but some things should never be said. I self-consciously pull my sleeves down to cover my wrists, crossing my arms to keep the thin, blue fabric in place. If he doesn't somehow know about that mess already, I certainly won't be the one to tell him.

"Bullshit. There's always something else, right? Something new?" When I don't answer he continues, his voice lower than before. "You could pull a nice trick here, you know. I'm sure you know a couple things about Preston."

"I would never do that."

"I hit a soft spot, huh? I didn't know you had those. Guess you learn something new every day."

"I would never sell you out, either. I like to think that my friends are better than that, too." He huffs and takes another drink, considering my response before he replies.

"You know, you're a good man. You're stupid as all hell, but you're a good man. I wish people like you wouldn't get tangled up with people like me."

"The world needs people like you, whether you want to admit it or not. Half of us wouldn't be here without you. Regardless, if you need to take it out on someone, take it out on me. Leave the pleblet out of this."

"You know, this hurts me. This actually, physically hurts me. How can you stand up for this guy and protect him and give him every weapon he needs when you know he's just gonna turn it all back on you and fuck you over? I don't know what's gonna be worse: seeing your face when he beats the shit out of you, or seeing your face when I pull the plug on him. Why you gotta put me in this position, Woof?"

"I haven't put you in any position, Jerome. You are trying to think too many turns ahead, as usual." He gives a short laugh and takes another bite of food, his teeth grinding noisily through my headphones. "Do you still need your pound of flesh?"

"Nah, I got what I needed, or at least I hope I did. But feel free to give me more." What could I have said that satisfied his thirst for blood? Was he messing with me all along? Could all of this have just been a ploy to get me to admit something? At this point, I am in too deep to waste time worrying about the Bacca's mind games.

"I already told you, I have nothing you would want."

"Quite the contrary, my friend. I wonder how much you know, and how much you think everybody else doesn't know."

"It isn't like you to talk in riddles."

"It isn't like you to be so transparent. I didn't know you bathed in Windex twice a day. I know it's blue, but come on!" I finish off the rest of my tasteless coffee and he waits for a response. When it never comes, he continues. "I could tell you, for a fee."

"Why would I pay to walk into the slaughterhouse when I could walk around it for free? Your words wound me, _monsieur_."

"And your actions kill me, _señor_. Always gotta make me out to be the bad guy." That horrific crunching fills up my headphones again, and I know he must be doing it on purpose. However, he seems to have forgotten that I don't have Preston's short temper. "No, I already knew before you even said anything tonight. Hell, at this point I'm pretty sure everyone knows, except Mitch, of course. And if everyone knows it, it ain't worth shit. I won't even hold it against you – it's fucked up enough as it is."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, but like I said, you already had my tongue. Your little debt is paid."

"It's going way beyond any kind of debt at this point. Now we're just taking a nice long swim in denial."

"What do you want from me, man?"

"I don't want anything from you. I'm just trying to help. You know, you're like one of those parents that tells their kid 'no, your fish didn't die, he's just taking a nap' and tells 'em to go outside and play, then you just stand there all alone and stare at the floating fish because you don't wanna face it. You can keep telling the kid over and over again that the fish's just sleeping, but after a while you're gonna have one rank ass smelly dead fish in that bowl." As questionable as his motives and morals might be, I can't choke back my laughter even at a time like this.

"What kind of childhood did you have?"

"What's a childhood? I just came out this way."

"I might actually buy into that."

"Now stop distracting me. We're getting to the good part here."

"And that would be?"

"You're in love with Preston." My blood freezes in my veins and I can feel my pupils contract as the fear response sets in. After over a year of fretting over potential statutory rape charges, my lingering feelings for him do nothing but fray my nerves. He may be eighteen now, but he is just as off-limits today as he was the day I met him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You're in love with Preston. Come on, man. If it was any more obvious you'd be down in Texas playing 'Hallelujah' on his bag pipes right now."

"Where the hell did you get that idea from?"

"Here's a better question: how the hell could I _not_ get that idea? Did you seriously think you were hiding it?" My silence must have been the response he was looking for because he snorts again and I can hear his smile when he talks. "You've got it so bad it's physically sickening, and that's coming from _me_. You should see yourself when he jumps in a recording call with us or, even worse, when you two are together at a convention or something. It's fucking nauseating and you should feel bad."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just… That cheesy smile! And the way your voice changes when you're around him. And the way you look at him. It's so fucking sweet it makes maple syrup drip from my eyeballs every time I see it. You are literally the sappiest thing I've seen in my entire life."

"I could say the same about you and Mitch." I know I shouldn't be firing shots when he has a machine gun pointed at my head, but his nosiness has struck a nerve. I try so hard not to feel anything but friendship for Preston, but Jerome just sees right through me and now he's taunting me about it.

"Mitch and I might share a wave length, but you and your little cactus have the same fucking heartbeat. Then you wonder why I hate working with you two together. I mean look at yourself, Woof. If he had you any more neutered, you'd be in Vegas singing opera or some shit." He takes another big drink of his pop and taps the empty can on his desk to break the silence. "That's why I hate seeing him use you like this. I hate seeing you fall for it when I know you aren't stupid and you'd never let anyone else take advantage of you like that. You're breaking my heart, man."

"Look, you can think what you want about me and about him, but I am not just going to cut him adrift when he hasn't done anything wrong. If he screws up, I will deal with it then. Until that happens, he is still my best friend. _Just_ my best friend." I can hear Jerome snickering quietly and I wish I had left the Skype call when Preston did. This has been nothing but harmful to me, and I shouldn't be here.

"He's a liability! So you're gonna sit right on top of the ticking time bomb and not shut it off just because you think it's cute? Shit like this is how zombie apocalypses get started." He gives a big sigh and starts chewing again as loudly as he possibly can. "Just promise me one thing and I'll shut my big mouth."

"What else could you possibly want?"

"When the time comes, promise me that you'll be the one to pull the trigger. You know I can't stand to see you cry." I catch myself nodding, even though I know he can't see me.

"If it comes to that, I couldn't live with myself if I made you do it." He drums on his desk and I can hear him rustling through a plastic bag next to the microphone.

"Now we're getting somewhere. No hard feelings?"

"No, no hard feelings. Plenty of worries, though."

"No shit, Sherlock. How do ya think I feel? Anyway, I'm gonna jump off here and finish up this big ol' can of chodenuts, so I'll talk to you on… Saturday? Yeah, Saturday."

"That sounds like a plan. Enjoy those nuts."

"Oh, I'll suck 'em dry for ya. And by the way, let me know if you wanna hear how this little love story of yours ends. I've got a nice, juicy list of spoilers I can spill for ya."

"Thank you, but no thank you."

"Your loss. Slurp ya later, dude." With one long, wet, deafening slurp, Jerome hangs up and leaves me to my thoughts. I dread being alone with my mind, tonight more than ever. With the usual grey cloud hovering above my head and the beginnings of war stirring up tensions on YouTube, I wish I had someone to take my mind off of everything. More than that, I wish I had someone who I knew I could trust, no matter what happens in the coming months. I am so tired of being alone and being afraid.

With no plans for the rest of the night besides simple off-camera work, I begin my usual maintenance routine on my computers: installing updates, cleaning out files, checking the registries, removing unneeded footage. When everything else falls to shit, at least I can depend on Procyon and Zube to keep running as smooth as ever. If only life was as easy as computing: input, output, input, output. Then again, my life is already so GIGO that wishing away any luck or personality I have would only make it worse. On the other hand, is it possible for a machine to wish for something it could never have experienced and could never comprehend? With no desire and no creativity, it would be impossible for a computer to imagine, let alone long for, life as a human.

'It must be so peaceful being a computer, with no unstable relationships or trivial emotions to weigh you down or interrupt your functions. Perhaps I should have been born a computer, or a Vulcan.' I let out a long breath and decide to make a fresh pot of coffee to restart my routine and get my mind back on track. When I walk past the dark living room, I notice the screen light up on my phone on the counter. I start the coffee before I walk over to unplug it, hoping that Jerome had not come up with a more persuasive sales pitch. Even if I believed his gossip, I don't have any secrets to wager that would be impressive or important enough to pay his asking price, even if I broke down and spilled my life story. The irony of his deal is that I would have to throw Preston under the bus and betray his secrets in order to learn if he returns my feelings. Such a perfect contradiction could not have been lost on Jerome. I hesitate before I unlock my phone to find three new text messages spaced out over the last hour:

 _Perst[heart]n: I feel bad now. I shouldve handled it better but the bacca just hurts my brain._

 _Perst[heart]n: Plz dont hurt me senpai. [heart]?_

 _Perst[heart]n: Are you mad at me now too?_

As much as I don't want to deal with Preston right now, it would be cruel for me to make him wait for an answer. I know him well enough to know that going this long without a response must be eating him up inside, and I will hold to my decision to remain friends with him until he gives me a reason to do otherwise. I may be many terrible things, but I am not a traitor.

 _Me: No, why would I be mad at you? The Bac was just having a long night, so don't take it personally._

 _Perst[heart]n: So were good?_

 _Me: I don't know about you, but I've got The Goodness so…_

 _Perst[heart]n: Stop being a giant pleb and go rest so youll feel better tomorrow. Im still gonna kick your butt tho._

 _Me: Dream on, babe. Goodnight._

 _Perst[heart]n: Night!_

'How could someone act this way and tell me all of their secrets, then just turn around and walk away? Our friendship is worth more than a few thousand subscribers and a little extra money, right? On the other hand, Team Crafted could offer him so much more than I can. I wish I knew what his true answer would be.' The coffeepot beeps and I lock my phone as I walk back to the kitchen, stretching to drain a smidgen of the stress from my body. I could use some rest, if only I wasn't so restless. This is going to be the first in a series of very, very long days.

* * *

 **June 21, 2012 at 1 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Jeez, it took you long enough," I mutter as I finally lock my phone for the night and put it over on the nightstand. I've been sitting here in bed like a total creep waiting for Rob to write back and tell me off for losing it with the Bac earlier. What's weird is that he isn't even mad or miffed or anything and it isn't like him to let me off the hook that easy. I'm totally grateful for him and I'm not complaining or anything, but sometimes he takes the role of 'senpai' a little too seriously. I roll over and pull the sheet up over my head to keep myself from staring at the red numbers on the alarm clock and to block out some of the noise from the guy upstairs clunking around and doing whatever the frick he does all night, every night. I try to close my eyes but I can't even pretend to be falling asleep.

Even though the stuff with Jerome earlier was nerve-wracking and sketchy and it ticked me off to no end, I'm more worried about Rob than anything else. He hasn't been sleeping as much as he should but he won't own up to it even when he looks like something from a Resident Evil game. Not just that, but he hasn't been himself lately. I don't know what it is, maybe it's his eyes, but he just seems so sad all the time and like he's not really there even when you're looking right at him on the screen. He puts on a show and plays his part when we're recording and he kinda does it around us, too, but even when the camera's pointed at him he isn't really smiling. He's a good actor but he isn't _that_ good. It's so hard to make him smile for real now and he doesn't laugh like he used to. Did I screw something up or does he actually really not feel good? Is it me or is it Rob?

I hope when he said he didn't feel good that he meant he was getting the flu or something easy like that. The idea of him getting depressed and hurting himself again is the scariest thing ever and I wish I lived closer to him so we could hang out more and I could drop in and check on him. Every time we leave a Skype call, I just sit around and wonder if he's gonna be okay until I see him again. If something happened to him and I wasn't able to save him, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It would kill me inside. Any pain he'd leave behind would just fall on me and haunt me, and I don't know what I'd do. If I miss him after ten minutes, I can't imagine what a world without him would be like.

"I just hope you're okay, dude."


	15. Chapter 15

**June 26, 2012 at 1 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

I wake up to the sound of war. My cell phone rings so seldom that I do not recognize the sound at first, but as soon as it registers, I already know what has happened. This number is unlisted and private, and although Mom and Dad both call me every day to check up on me, they never call me on my cell or at this time of day. That only leaves one viable alternative: shots have been fired and the stalemate has finally been broken. I pull the blanket away from my head and squint into the sunlight as I grab the phone off of the bedside table and check the caller ID. Sure enough, a cartoon Bacca is gazing up at me, his cute little furry face breaking into a cheerful smile. If that thumbnail was any farther from the truth right now, it would be outside of my render distance. I answer the phone and he is already talking before I can make a sound.

"Get your ass outta bed and get on Skype. Use your old account, not the new one. If I don't get to sleep, none of you lazy bastards get to sleep, either." He abruptly hangs up and I stare down at the screen, the time stamp saying that it had only been a four second call.

'He must really mean business today. I wonder what ruffled his fur so much.' A soft groan forces its way out of my mouth and I quickly throw the covers off, wrinkling my nose at the bright afternoon sunlight seeping in between the blinds. I miss my first apartment, with the black, lightproof curtains and my computer setup six feet away from my bed, a cheap mini-fridge tucked away next to the desk with all of my textbooks stacked on top of it. With the first genuine yawn I have had in days, I slip into the nearest pair of pants and shrug on my hoodie as I stumble into the kitchen to grab a cup of the coffee left over from early this morning. The taste of stale, cold, twelve-hour-old black coffee is enough to make anyone want to go back to sleep. With the last of my willpower, I crawl into my dark office and boot up Procyon, putting in my left ear bud with one hand while the other absent-mindedly tries to force my hair to look presentable. That was a battle lost long ago.

"Took you fucking long enough. I wish _I_ could afford to run on Mitch Time." He looks beyond furious, his eyebrows knitted together in an almost comedic scowl and his eyes flashing dangerously while he types something on another monitor. A livid Jerome is a terrifying and bewildering creature.

"What went down?"

"The whole fucking world. You wouldn't believe this shit. They must really think they're something if they think they can get away with pulling a stunt like this." He pounds on his keyboard a few seconds longer before he folds his arms on his desk and puts his head down on them, his hair standing up more on the left side from him running his hand through it repeatedly. He looks so exhausted and exasperated, but he is far from defeated. Whoever incited the wrath of the Bacca must be big enough to put up quite a struggle; I have never seen him this stressed and flustered before.

"You are going to have to start from the beginning. I have no idea what's going on."

"Oh, _yeah_. I forgot you're one of the lucky ones who get to blink and miss shit like this. Forgive me for not bowing down a little sooner."

"Jerome, I am not your enemy here. I am only trying to help." He gives a big, breathy sigh and turns his head to look up at the screen, one dark, shark-like eye studying my face.

"You're on your Mac, right?" I nod uncertainly as he raises his head up from his arms and leans back in his chair, his right hand scratching at the stubble on his cheek. "Good. Turn it so I can see your other computer and put your phone on the table. If this shit gets out, I'll nuke _you_ off the face of the Earth, too. Got it?" He wants to keep me from doing anything or having contact with anyone until everything settles down, but he is willing to risk me having recording equipment turned on right next to me? That level of carelessness is unheard of in his case, and it feels like his resolve to keep me at a distance is finally beginning to erode. On the other hand, why does he suspect me in the first place?

"If that's what it takes for you to trust me, so be it." I comply with his request and place my phone screen-side up in front of the computer, crossing my arms on top of the desk so he can see my hands at all times. Although I can't blame him for being cautious, his suspicion hurts me. I feel like Light Yagami, surrounded by cameras watching my every move and shinigamis whispering secrets about the underworld.

"Come on now. We aren't little kids playin' coppers here. Let me see your phone." I keep the phone flat on the desk and type in my PIN, then I hold it up to the camera so he can see the screen. His eyes narrow to check to see if I have anyone in a call or a recording app open. When he is satisfied, I set the phone back down on the desk and allow it to lock itself, hopefully preventing any further mistrust.

"Are you happy now?"

"As happy as I'm ever gonna be in a situation like this. I'm telling you, this shit _sucks_." He covers his face with his hands for a moment before he grips the arms of his chair and continues speaking, his eyes looking at me on the monitor but not actually seeing me. "So here's what happened on the last episode of Dragonball Z: Seto was hanging off the edge of Crafter's Peak, seconds away from falling, and he used the last ounce of his strength to unleash his hidden power – the infamous supersonic wail. Crying like a small child, he was able to use his hysterics to bend Deady Dearest's ear and get him to change his vote, but was it enough to save him? Alas, 'tis not! To counter the powerful attack and to put an end to Seto's sorcery, the one and only BenjaCanada opened his colossal mouth and went full fucking Super Saiyan, launching into an uncontrollable rant at the speed of light before slamming his big, dumb, greasy, Cheeto-dust-covered hand down on the mouse and removing the still-wailing villain from the Skype call!

"But it was too late and the sorcerer's stone was too powerful! Under the control of Seto's mighty spell, all but one of our heroes has turned their weapons against Benja and they're preparing to strike! Will Jerome, his poor, dim-witted, sleep-deprived sidekick, be able to restore balance to the force in time, or is this the end of the line for our heroes? Tune in next time to see if the Bac can carry his friend's stupid, battered, flaccid body out of the reach of the flames before the Fire Nation can have deep-fried scapegoat for dinner!"

"Nicely done. I rate that."

"You like that? It's a shame they won't renew my contract for a second season. Coulda been somethin' _real_ special." He goes back to typing on his other monitor, the sides of his mouth slowly curling up in a smirk. Either someone just cracked a hilarious joke, or their YouTube career is now teetering precariously on a very, very fine line.

"Are they on the move, or are they still coming up with a battle plan?"

"Oh, no. They've already struck. The little worm self-destructed like a fucking shiny Electrode with stars and sparks and the whole she-bang. I didn't think he had the guts. He sold his soul and half his furniture to pay a couple of his hacker friends to do as much damage as they could, then he just got up and walked away from YouTube. He knew it was over, so he decided to try to take a nice, meaty chunk outta us before he went. Now Crafted's all up in arms about Mitch's verbal diarrhea and they're coming up with all kinds of ludicrous shit to turn everyone else against us, too. All this happened yesterday, but now the bombs are dropping and it's turning into fucking Christmas at Ground Zero. I swear that song's gonna be my ringtone for Mitch by the end of the week."

"What did they do? Was it something your squad can't fix?" At this point, Jerome just looks glum, his eyes unfocused as he stares blankly at the computer screen while he tells his tale. This moment of reflection is probably the most rest he has gotten in days.

"They did something so pathetic and so shitty that even _I_ never would've stooped that low: they hacked into Mitch's e-mail and bank account and emptied everything out, then mass-posted his phone number and home address all over everything. Paul and all the rest of the guys are still cleaning it up, but Mitch already packed up everything worth saving and he's chilling at a motel until he can find a new pad. There's no way he could stay at his place with all these fucking lunatics ranting and raving and foaming at the mouth about how he used and betrayed Crafted and everyone else who ever lived. Plus, this little show is attracting the attention of every troll and psychopath who's ever been on YouTube _or_ Reddit. You know, you never realize how fucking scary it is to have a fan base until you see people lurking around in front of your apartment building with their hoods pulled up. And these aren't kids – they're full-grown fucking adults."

"He can stay here if he needs to. It might not be 'Le Magnifique Château de Mitchell,' but at least I have security guards downstairs in the lobby and an alarm system. What is he living on right now if he has no money left?"

"Me. He's always living off me. Bad thing is, I don't make anywhere near as much money as Mitch and I already shelled out my rent this month. And let's be honest here: I might need to waste all my savings to end this little shitstorm. As much as I hate to ask you to do this, I might hafta dump him off on you until we get something better worked out." He looks infinitesimally calmer now, his forehead still crinkled in aggravation as he turns and quickly types something on the other screen. "Not to be pushy, but it'd be good to do that as soon as possible. It's fucking scary out there. Do you mind if I e-mail him and set it up?"

"Sure, go ahead. I trust you." He gives a snort of laughter and bobs his head as he types, the beginnings of a genuine grin fighting off his grimace.

"You're a funny guy, Woof. Trust. Heh."

"Am I supposed to go pick him up, or do you not have enough faith in me to let me out of your line of sight?" He shakes his head emphatically and finishes the e-mail before he speaks.

"Your sweet little ass isn't leaving that chair until Mitch rings your doorbell. I'll tell you the plan in a second, but this's just the tip of the iceberg. I almost said 'dick,' but that'd mean I let them screw us over and Notch knows _that_ ain't gonna happen." He reaches out of the frame and grabs a can of coffee-flavored Monster and shakes it up before downing nearly the entire can. "We're working on day three with no sleep. I swear, pretty soon I'm gonna start hearing voices and seeing Endermen or some shit."

"What was that plan you were talking about?"

"Oh, yeah. Almost spaced it out. So he still has people watching him, and you know by now that someone somewhere has his license plate number smeared all over the interwebs. That makes his car too easy to follow so we won't be using that one, and we don't want them to be able to track him down with your plate number, either. That'd just put you in danger, too. Call me a softy but I don't wanna put you in harm's way just because you're so nice that you're stupid.

"So he's over there throwing everything back in his car and getting ready to take off, and I'm just gonna sit here and hope some psycho motherfucker didn't put a bomb in his car. I'll call up a tow truck in a minute and have 'em drag Mitch's car over to a mechanic to get his oil changed or whatever the fuck they can find wrong with it, and they can just keep it there until we figure out what to do with it. At least we'll know where it's at and someone'll be watching it for us. Then he's gonna grab a cab and take a little loop-de-loop ride with all his shit in the trunk for however long he thinks it'll take, and they'll drop him off at your place when he gets done. Deal?"

"Sounds gucci. Do you have enough to cover it?" He snorts and pulls out his phone, dialing a number he has pulled up on his third monitor.

"That's a good one, Woof. Acting like you have enough to float my boat. Half the time you're barely floating yourself. Don't worry 'bout it." While he talks to the towing company on the phone and gives them the address to Mitch's motel, I silently click on Preston's name on Skype and open up a chat window. As risky as this may be, he is likely in more danger than I am right now. I check to make sure the Bacca is still distracted before I begin typing, slowly and carefully, my eyes never leaving Jerome's face on the main window:

 _Think before you speak and don't trust anyone. If you say the wrong thing, there's nothing I can do to help you._

I have never been more grateful for Procy's soundless, luminescent keyboard, and I feel a sudden surge of affection for the cute little laptop. I finish writing long before the Bacca ends his phone call, and I force myself to drink the rest of my putrid coffee to keep him from getting suspicious of my silence and lack of movement. At this rate, I will need every drop of caffeine I can get to stay awake for the rest of the show.

"Well, turns out that that was a much better plan than I thought it was. Mitch e-mailed me and he said someone slashed all four of his tires since this morning, so now we have a legitimate excuse to lodge his car at the shop for an eternity and a half. Between needing new plates and tires, Bessie's gonna be havin' one hell of a vacation."

"Maybe between the three of us, we can pool together enough on the first of the month to bail it out. You would have to take the plates off of it and tow it all through the city again, yeah?"

"Probably. This stalking shit ain't cheap, that's for sure. Anyway, back to the main plot. Wait until you hear what else they got. You might wanna grab a water bottle or something because you're about to piss yourself."

* * *

 **June 26, 2012 at 10 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Gosh dang it, Kenny! I told you I'd be back on at four!" I take one last look at my nice, hot slice of pizza and put it back on the plate and pause my show. I wanted to finish the last few episodes of 'Bleach' before they got any more spoiled by the internet but he just _has_ to go kill noobs right freaking now! I walk over to the computer and get ready to start cussing him out when I see it isn't even him calling. It's someone called LeetFire who I've never even heard of, and their avatar is a black Creeper with its mouth twisted into a smile and glowing red eyes. "And what the frick are _you_ supposed to be?" Did someone give my Skype username out to some crazy fan so they could come troll me all the time? I bet Jerome did it. That sounds like something he would do. I switch my settings to audio-only and answer the call.

"I was hoping I could find you. I hate playing phone tag," the guy says just a little too happily. Whoever this is, I've never heard his voice before but he's already pissing me off with his weird attitude.

"Hey, who is this?"

"Hmm? Oh, the name's Jared. I'm an old friend of the BenjandBac's from TC. You know their collab group, right? Team Crafted?"

"Yeah, of course I do. Who _doesn't_ know Team Crafted?"

"Well, then we're off to a good start. One of the other members, Dawn, asked me to get ahold of you to talk to you about a big project we've been working on for a couple months now. Have you got a few minutes to spare?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Great! You see, we had all this time and money and work invested in this new multiplayer server we've been planning out forever. We wanted to get everything set up and running before PAX in August so we could get the hype train going, but we just had a little trouble with one of our members. Did you hear about that?" Who does he think I am, the Bacca? I have better things to do with my time than gossip about other Tubers, and I sure as frick don't wanna get caught talking about something I have no business talking about. For all I know, this guy could be recording me.

"No, dude, I don't usually follow that stuff. Sorry to hear about that."

"Yeah, it's really unfortunate. It set us back quite a bit and we were already running low on time. To cut to the chase, we have a vacancy on our team and we were wondering if you'd like to join us. Are you in?" A hundred thousand things are going through my head right now and I don't even know what to think. Is this the real life, or is this fantasy? Is this guy for real, or is he just screwing with me? But if this was real, why didn't an actual member of Team Crafted call me? Why didn't Mitch (or heaven forbid, Jerome) call me up and give me the news? This sounds kinda fishy and like it's too good to be true.

"Whoa, whoa. Can you give me a minute here? That's a lot to take in."

"Yeah, of course. Take all the time you need." Something about him tells me that I shouldn't trust him and I should just hang up and forget about it and go back to my show. That sounds like something Rob would tell me to do. This guy seems so cheerful and friendly, though…

"So how'd you get my Skype again? Not to be rude, but I've only given it to like, six people."

"Dawn gave it to me. You know Dawn, right?"

"Pfft, everyone knows Dawn. But I've never talked to her before, so how would she have my Skype? That seems a little odd, eh?" Okay, now I'm really starting to sound like Rob. I guess he's rubbing off on me more than I thought he was, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

"Don't ask _me_. I'm just the messenger. Mitch or Jerome or Husky or one of their other buddies must've passed it on to her at some point. Anyways, did you have any questions about the project or Crafted or anything, or have you already made up your mind?" Wow, he's really pushing this, isn't he? There's this part of my brain that's telling me to run, run as fast as I can away from here, but wouldn't it be awesome if it was true? Can I afford to pass up this opportunity if it's really real? Just think about how big this is and what it'd do for my channel! This could be the big step I was waiting for and it'd be stupid for me to just let it fly out the window without at least thinking about it first.

"I dunno, dude. It's just… it's so much to think about. I should probably talk this over with my partner first."

"I mean, you can if you want to. But are you really gonna let him run your life like that?"

"What?"

"I mean, no offense, Rob's great and everything, but there's a reason he's been stuck at four hundred thousand subs for almost a year now – he doesn't have what it takes to do better than that. But you know what? You do. We _know_ you do. You shouldn't let someone like that hold you back and use you, man. Why would you settle for being like the Bacca when you could be like Mitch? Nobody likes being the sidekick." He's starting to get to me. I won't lie: I've been thinking about this for a while now. I love Rob like a brother and meeting him was the best thing that ever happened to me on YouTube, but do I really still need him to play senpai with me? Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade our friendship for the world and I won't stop working with him, but maybe I should start working with some other big people, too. He'd say the same thing, right?

"I dunno. I think I'm still kinda… shocked about the whole thing. I don't know what to say."

"You're serious? Can you really say no to an opportunity like this? Come on, man! Your channels are fucking _puny_ compared to some of the guys you'd be working with, and let's face it: you'd learn a lot more from someone who is actually successful." Ouch. That stings and he isn't even talking about me.

"Hey, Rob's a good guy. Don't talk about him like that."

"I'm sorry but sometimes the truth hurts. People like him and Jerome – they play it too safe. They put their feet up and strategize and play their little games, while people like Sky and Mitch and you are out there working your asses off and earning subs. They just sit back and feed off all of _your_ hard work. If you want to make it on YouTube, you can't play it safe. Sometimes you have to yolo it and make a couple mistakes every now and then." He might be right, but I could also be making a huge freaking mistake here by trusting him. Why can't this be easy like it was when Mitch offered me the chance to record with him and there was only one sane answer? I thought this'd get easier but it's just gotten so much harder. I feel like I'm playing chess and I don't even know how all the different pieces move. I guess I really don't know what I'm doing still, and this's just freaking me out. I should call Rob before I do anything. He'll know what to do.

"Sorry, dude, but I just don't know. I still wanna think it over for a while before I give you an answer."

"You know what? That's completely fine. I understand that this is a really big step forward for you, and you might not be ready to take it yet. I get it. You can take as much time as you need. But can I tell the others that you're seriously thinking about it, or is there just no chance you'd want to join?" He still sounds so calm and friendly, like a banker or a CSM at a Walmart who's been doing the same job for fifteen years and just knows all the right things to say. I kinda feel bad that I can't give him an answer.

"No, I mean I'm really leaning towards joining but I can't just make a huge decision like that in, what? Five minutes? I wanna think about it for a little while and maybe talk to the other guys about the project before I decide. I don't really like doing big things like that – I'm a simple guy."

"You can if you want to. It's just… don't tell anyone I told you this, okay? Promise?"

"Yeah, of course."

"So Jerome wasn't exactly thrilled about us choosing to add you to the team. Actually, he was pretty pissed off that we even brought it up. I don't think talking to him or Mitch about this would be a good idea. They'd just sway your opinion and give us all a bad name." I can't really say that that's surprising, but it still hurts to hear. I knew the Bacca didn't like me, but does he hate me enough to just not give me a chance at all? What'd I do to tick him off like that?

"So basically, I'm screwed if I join because then I'll have to work with him all the time."

"What? Oh, no, absolutely not. If he starts giving you shit, _we'll_ take care of him. You see, when you get right down to it, the Bacca's a lot of growling and hardly any biting. He doesn't mean ninety percent of what he says, and even if he does mean it, he doesn't have an army to back it up. Don't worry about Jerome – he's just a big, fluffy bully." Now this part sounds pretty fake and it's raising red flags all over the place. I've heard stories from Rob and Nooch about things the Bacca has had to do, and I've seen a couple little things with my own eyes. Jerome has a battalion of freaking radioactive ninja hackers in his back pocket that he can whip out whenever he wants to rek something he doesn't like, and whatever got in his way will be gone in just a couple minutes. I call this LeetFire guy's BS.

"Mitch and me are cool, though. I don't think he'd screw me over."

"You know why they call them the BenjandBac, right? They're so close that they're pretty much the same person. Mitch might like you, but don't you think he'd side with the Bacca before he sided with some guy he just met like last year? Do what you want, but I'm just trying to help you out and keep your options open. As soon as you get those two involved, your options are – poof – right down the toilet." He doesn't want me to talk to the Bac, Mitch, or Rob about any of this until I've already made up my mind. Why doesn't he want me to talk to anyone? The more I think about it, the more suspicious all this sounds. Maybe I should play along for a little bit and see where that gets me.

"I guess. I just don't really know what I'm getting into here. What would I have to do if I joined?"

"So you _are_ thinking about it. That's great! Well, the first thing we'd have to do is tell everyone, and by that I mean we have to tell everyone in TC first. After that, we need to get the news out to the fans as quickly as possible to cover up some of this drama with the other team members. You know what they say: the only thing bigger than a death is a birth." How can this guy sound so happy if things are as bad as he makes it seem? I thought he said he was friends with everyone in Crafted, and didn't someone just leave? Shouldn't he feel kinda bad about replacing them, especially if it just happened? He seems pretty heartless, kinda like Jerome.

"How would we tell them?"

"Probably just through e-mail. You said you didn't know Dawn, right? Who _do_ you know from the team?"

"Uh… Just Mitch and Jerome, I think. Yeah, I think that's it. I've met Deadlox a couple times, but I wouldn't say I know him."

"You're missing out on a lot if they don't let you record with any of the other guys. I'm surprised you put up with them for this long." That really hurts, too. Even if this guy's lying through his teeth right now, is that part true? Are they really keeping me down like that? I can hear him typing something on his keyboard and I'm praying he isn't telling someone about this. I didn't say anything bad about anyone, did I? On the other hand, I haven't really stood up for anyone besides Rob, either. If he's recording this to send to someone, I'm totally freaking screwed. "Well, since you're still technically friends with them, I think you should be the one to break the news to them. We have these cheesy little announcements Sky and Dawn wanted you to send out if you decided to join. I'll send a copy of the e-mail over for you to look at. Do you have an address I can use?"

He makes it sound so innocent and simple, but this is the scariest thing he's said yet. This sends up the biggest red flag that's ever been sewn together in the history of the world. What is he _actually_ sending me? But if this's the only way to keep him talking, I need to have him send it somewhere where he can't get into anything important. I've definitely been spending too much time with Rob if I'm blocking up caves and doing shift checks and thinking everything's a trap now. But how bad could this get if I'm not careful?

"Oh, sure. My e-mail is fragmore at hotmail. Had to think about it for a second there." I give him the account I made back in middle school that I only use for junk mail now. There isn't a whole lot he could screw with in there if he's trying to get into my stuff. I pull my phone out of my pocket and go to the settings menu and wipe everything out of its memory as fast as I can before he can get suspicious. I need to flank him and block his path before he reks me here.

"Yeah, I feel you. You get so used to Skype and texting that it's weird when people don't already have all of your info. Usually that kind of thing just gets passed around. Alright, it's on its way. You can take a look if you want, but don't blame me if it's too tacky for your tastes. I'm just the messenger." After my phone finally reboots, I zoom through the set-up tutorial and log into my old e-mail account. When it dings, I cautiously open the message even though I really don't think I should. Nothing happens, though. It just looks like a cheap birthday card with everyone's Minecraft skins on it and a swirly red lava pattern in the background and fancy script declaring me the newest member of Team Crafted. My character is front and center with everyone else around it, and I catch myself staring at the business Bacca standing right next to my lava mob. "You still there?" I need to be as convincing as possible so he doesn't realize I'm onto him if he's trying to do something to me, and so I don't freak him out just in case I'm wrong about him. I have to think like Daka now: smooth and sleek and handsome as all crud.

"Yeah, my e-mail's just really slow. Hotmail freaking sucks. It was nice of them to do that for me, though."

"It's a nice idea but… Someone really needs to work on their Photoshop skills. Anyways, if you _do_ decide to join, all you have to do is forward that e-mail to everyone I tagged in the recipients list, plus Mitch and Jerome, then give me a call on here. It might take me a couple of rings, but I'll always answer. And if you need me to, I can help you deal with the BenjandBac. Other than that, I think we're done here. Sorry for wasting so much of your time."

"No, it's no problem. Thanks for helping me out with this, dude. It really means a lot to me."

"Don't mention it. Just let me know if you have any questions or anything."

"Will do. Thanks again."

"Yep. See you around, man." He ends the Skype call and I just sit there like an idiot and stare at my list of contacts on the computer. I really don't know what to think. It can't be real, can it? No, it seems too fishy. But who would play a trick like this? It'd have to be Jerome, and since this guy kept badmouthing him and Mitch and I never said anything to defend them, I'm in trouble so deep I can't even begin to see out of it. I just wanna sit here and curl up in a little ball and cry. I put my forehead down on the cool desk and let everything whir around in my head for a while before I decide that I really, truly can't deal with this on my own. I move the cursor over to Rob's avatar to ask him to Skype me when he wakes up, but it won't let me click on it.

"What the heck? What's going on?" I try to create a message again but it still doesn't work. It must be frozen or something. I go over to Chrome and try to launch a window to DM him on Twitter but the page won't open and it says my computer can't connect to the internet. I look behind my monitors at my networking stuff but the modem and router both look fine, and rebooting them does absolutely nothing to fix the problem. "And now the freaking internet's down. Talk about a weird and crappy day." That's when it dawns on me: if the internet was down, how'd that guy Skype me? "Oh, _crap_."

I pull the plug on my modem before any more damage can be done, and I disconnect the webcam just for good measure. Who knows what this guy is capable of? I switch over to my smartphone and the only thing that even pretends to work is my e-mail app, and even that's really glitchy. LeetFire only left me one option, and it isn't really much of an option. I can't risk e-mailing Rob and spreading whatever's wrong with my stuff to his stuff. I'm pretty sure he'd have a full-scale funeral for his Mac if it got fried and I've screwed up enough things today without murdering his computer, too.

When Rob finds out, he's gonna kill me first and Mitch's gonna kill me second and Jerome's gonna kill me like twenty times over again and murk my channels and end my existence. I'm so screwed it's not even funny, and now that my career on YouTube's over I can't even pay my rent, let alone buy a new computer. What the crap am I gonna do? I'm a whole new breed of pleblord now. My phone won't even let me text Rob to figure out what to do next, and I don't have a home phone to call him on. Even if I did, I deleted his number along with everything else in my phone when I wiped the memory. I really don't wanna play the waiting game, but I'm not smart like him so it looks like I have no choice. I hate playing chess because I always lose.


	16. Chapter 16

**June 26, 2012 at 1 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Is that why you always have so many cans on your desk, Jerome? Are you prepared for the worst?" He looks over at me with one of his many pervert faces, a trace of his poker face still lingering around the edges and in his eyes. We have only been sitting here for about half an hour and I already can't wait until he regains his usual sense of humor.

"Well, _someone_ has to be prepared. I call it 'The Smell of Victory.' It also keeps my mom outta my apartment like ninety-nine point nine percent of the time. Best fucking security system ever. It's like a minefield and a box of chocolates all in one – you never know what you're gonna get until you take a sip or knock one over." He types another brief e-mail before he relaxes back in his chair, his eyes studying my face while he prepares to tell the next story. "You never answered me. You got that bottle poised and ready?"

"I think I can hold it. Daddy says I'm a big boy now."

"Suit yourself. They bitchslapped Preston." I try to keep the apprehension and anger from showing on my face, but I can tell from the way he is looking at me that he already knows. Setting my feelings for Preston aside for a moment, this puts all of us in danger. If they invaded his computer and got all of our information, everyone is at risk now, especially me. I am now seriously regretting sending that message to Preston – can they somehow use that to get to me?

"How do you know?"

"I've had Zeus watching him for a little while now. He's about as trustworthy as Seto was before he lost his fucking mind, and I'm not gonna make _that_ mistake again." Although I dislike the idea of Jerome constantly monitoring us without our knowledge, let alone our approval, I am overwhelmingly grateful for his limitless devotion to Mitch right now. "He got a lethal dosage of malware a couple hours ago and no one's seen him since. Judging by the way the Big Z acted when he gave me the news, Pressy probably doesn't even have a way to tell us what's going on on his end, which I think is for the best. The last thing we need is for him to give them anything else. Seto's little 8-bit buddy sounds like a real savage: they remote controlled his computer and locked it down, and all of the data packets Paul sent to his phone just bounced right back. They got into his webcam and everything, and they just sat there and watched him like a buzzard for who knows how long. Scary shit, man."

"What happened when they hit him? Do they know?" Jerome shakes his head and glances over at his other monitor, his eyes scanning something quickly before he looks back at me, the corners his mouth drooping in a frown.

'What were you thinking? How fucking stupid can you be? Did you actually think that Jerome wouldn't find out about the message? More importantly, even if he got it in time, did you think Preston would actually listen?' I try to push the fog out of my mind and focus my complete attention on the situation at hand, but that is much easier said than done. Like most afternoons when I decide to try to sleep, I have several milligrams of powerful anti-anxiety medication flowing through my veins and it is difficult to pay attention, let alone make intelligent decisions.

"Zeus said his access cut out before he could see what happened. He looked through his records at the last few minutes of activity and he thinks they got to him through Skype, which could be a whole other pot of shit I don't even wanna peek into yet. It could be anything, though. Last time he checked in, he was still working on tracing it but no luck yet, I guess. It took him a while to connect Preston's computer to another access point – they took his internet down, too."

"That was why you wanted to use our old accounts, isn't it? You didn't want to risk it spreading." Each second that passes makes me regret trying to contact Preston even more. Not only was it a terrible idea, but it was completely pointless. The only thing that message will do is allow Seto's hacker to access my account, and from there, control my computer and use it to attack Jerome. I am completely disposable – he is not. If he doesn't already know about it, I am going to have to tell him; at this point, security is much more important than trust.

"And Bingo was his name-o. Shit like this's why I make all you lower lifeforms create new accounts every six months. You know better than anyone that you can never be too careful." Something catches his eye on his other screen and he reaches over and dramatically hits two keys before he sits back and pinches the bridge of his nose. "The Big Z's been listening in and he says he's still sniffing out the trail. He also gave me another little tidbit I shoulda seen coming but wasn't smart enough to plan around. I'm not real happy with you right now."

"Why is that?" He lets his hand drop and his eyes lock onto mine, his face a stone cold mask of feigned indifference.

"You know why. You shoulda seen the look on your face a second ago. You must've seen your life flash before your eyes when I told you they OHKO'd Preston. Why'd you message him when I was on the phone?" I feel almost disconnected from reality, like I am floating on a cloud of smoke while I stare into his eyes. If only he had called me a few hours earlier, I wouldn't have taken my pills and I would be able to focus and plan ahead. The full effect is setting in, and right now I am not competent enough to deal with this situation. I feel like I just drank an entire keg of beer. It was such a stupid mistake and I feel like a small child now, about to get chastised for stealing a handful of cookies right before dinnertime.

'At least he knows. I need to wake up and play this game like my life is on the line, because it actually is. YouTube is the only job I have ever had that I can't be fired from, no matter how unstable I get. A loss will spell the end for me in more ways than one.' All I have left now is the truth.

"I was trying to keep him from doing something stupid, but I'm not in my right mind at the moment. You and I both know he doesn't think anything through all the way, and I was trying to get him to bow out of the situation before he could fuck all of us over. You told me from day one that was what you wanted me to do."

"And you did a fucking swell job of deflating the situation. How do I know that's all you were saying? If you were any more vague with that little hint of yours, you'd be hanging in the main hall of the fucking Louvre."

"How could you _not_ know what I was saying? You have Paul, Zeus, and who knows how many other people watching everything I do at all hours of the day and night. At this point, the only way you could get any farther into my brain would be if you planted a microchip in my frontal lobe. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing for Mitch if the roles were reversed." It feels like he wants to believe me but he can't bring himself to look beyond all of the other possibilities. His expression is a mixture of suspicion and pity, and I am not sure which I hate more. "You know as well as I do that doing the right thing and doing the smart thing are very rarely the same thing, especially when Preston is involved."

"Okay, just shut up and hear me out for once. First of all, when you sent that message, it was already too late. Second of all, he had no business getting involved in the first place and the fact that he _did_ get involved makes me trust him even less. And third of all, he shoulda known better than to try to cross the street in front of an eighteen-wheeler that was spinning outta control. He had to have known what was going on with Crafted because the penguins in fucking Antarctica could hear Seto wailing. That's a big warning sign right there. And if he actually, truly, one hundred percent wasn't involved, why didn't you teach him not to talk to strangers? There was no fucking reason for him to be in contact with any of them! This's what pisses me off, Woof. It's _your_ job to keep him in check and outta shit like this. That's why I set you two up together in the first place – not so you could sit there and make goo-goo eyes at each other."

"Where were _you_ in all of this? You didn't even bother to arm his computer, so what did you expect _me_ to do? I am not a ventriloquist, Jerome. He isn't some puppet on a string I can just yank around however I see fit. I do the best I can, but he has a mind of his own, just like Mitch does." At that, his hand goes up to his forehead and he covers his eyes while another wave of dismay flows over him. Like his motto says, the truth hurts. "As much as you care about him, you know that Mitch is just as much of a liability as Preston is."

"Yeah, I know. But at least I know where Mitch's loyalties lie. Even though I hate cleaning up his puke and changing his diapers, I know for a fact Benj wouldn't just spill his guts and start beating the drums for the other side. I know you love the guy and you're smitten with him for whatever reason, but he's a cactus with spines and thorns and all kinds of horrible shit I wouldn't even wanna touch with iron gloves. As soon as he sees it's raining more somewhere else, he's gonna impale your fucking hand, pick up his roots, and sprint into the pretty little sunset without you. No amount of babysitting is gonna fix _that_ , Rob."

"I would like to think that I know him better than you do, and the Preston I know would never do something like that."

"Now this is just pathetic! Why can't you look at it and see it like it really is? Are you turning into fucking Don Quixote?" He is beginning to lose his temper again, and he would have ended the Skype call at this point if the circumstances were different. He seriously mistrusts me now and I feel horrible for putting him in this position. He has enough going on already without trying to deal with my dazed, drugged, lovesick nonsense, too. "Are you gonna break into song about your sweet, prickly Dulcinea now? Next you're gonna be jousting with windmills and screaming about monsters in the bathroom mirror and carving slam poetry into the walls. You need to have your fucking head examined."

"I already do that four times a year, thank you very much. If they put me on any more pills, I won't be able to walk up a flight of stairs without falling over. Perhaps you're the one who should get some help." He cracks a grim smile and bobs his head for a few seconds before he gulps down the rest of his energy drink and carefully adds it to his famous line of cans to the left of his computer setup. Jerome and I have always had an implicit understanding that something about me is a little off, that I might not always be able to make the best decisions or act in a predictable way. Him asking for my latest diagnosis is a running joke, but he respects me enough to cut me more of a break than he would someone like Preston, for better or for worse.

"So that's what it is. I don't need help; I just need a good hook-up. Whatcha got for ten bucks?"

"Ten bucks? It depends on what time of month it is and how much I have in my bank account. Right now, it can either get you a handful of extra-strong antidepressants or a couple of medium dosage tranquilizers. Either way, everyone is going to think you're stoned off your ass, including you."

"And here I thought you were just a really nice guy with a chill attitude. How much of that's just the meds talking?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." He grins and glances over at the other screen again, reaching over to hit two keys before he turns back to me.

"Well, if we do a few quick calculations, it's pretty clear that the shit's flowing into the container faster than it's flowing out. In other words, we can't afford to have you doped up right now because things are about to get _real_ smelly. On a scale of one to ten, how druggy are you right now?"

"Eight, but I can cope with it."

"Coping isn't the same as functioning. On a scale of one to ten, how necessary is it?"

"In the short term, four."

"I look, sound, and feel like a complete sack of shit for asking you to do this, but can you skip out on your pills for a couple days? We need your insomnia to keep everyone else off their asses, and I can't bounce my ideas off someone who can't walk up the fucking stairs or think about the consequences of his actions. And I'm not just talking about Mitch here." He cocks his eyebrow and I just shrug, my face automatically breaking into Dad's trademark troll grin. I can already feel the whisps of smoke beginning to thin as I get a glimpse of the drug-free clarity I always crave. In just a few hours, I can be me again for the first time in forever.

"You act like I mind having an excuse to not pop pills. If that's what you need me to do, so be it. I have nothing else I can contribute to your war effort."

"Fan-tastic. How long can you go without zonking out or killing someone?"

"I usually go about three days before I need to call it quits, but with Mitch here, I can go five if I need to. I can still work normally until the end of the fifth day, but I can't be left alone after four days. If he is willing to babysit me, I am at your service."

"Why can't you be left alone?" He has a curious, greedy look in his eyes as he searches my face for a hint of distress, for a clue about my hidden madness. I have dealt with my problems for so long that they barely faze me anymore, and they seem more like superpowers or personality quirks than serious mental health problems. If I am permanently stuck with them either way, why not make the most of it?

"With any luck, you'll never find out."

"Is Robbie afraid of seeing monsters in the dark?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"Nah, I'm just pulling your finger. Here's the real question: does Mitch know?"

"Does Mitch know anything?" He snorts and glances over at the other monitor again, skimming through an e-mail before he types out a reply and scribbles something down on a piece of paper off-screen. "What happened?"

"They patched up your stupidity, so don't worry about it. Paul just recovered a shit ton of stuff from Preston's computer and he's working on locking down all his e-mail and social media accounts right now. Wouldn't want someone selling those off, now would we?" He finishes writing and turns to read another e-mail, his eyes widening halfway through. "Shit. Why the fuck…? Ugh!" He reclines in his chair and covers his face with his hands, his forehead turning bright red along his hairline. I give him a minute to pull himself back together before I push him too far and launch him into another rant.

"Are you okay? Did something happen with Mitch?" When he speaks, his voice is lower than it has been at any other point in the call. All of the stress I have alleviated by joking around and strategizing with him has returned full-force.

"No, not that I know of. They fried Mitch's phone and he has no way to talk to us unless he can get on his laptop. Paul just finished scanning Preston's accounts, and I don't know if Pressy did something smart for once or if they just took pity on him, but it looks like they only managed to get into one."

"What'd they find?" He leans forward on the desk and rests his chin on his hand, his eyebrows scrunched together as he plans.

"It coulda been worse, but it still fucking sucks. They tried to do the same thing they did to Mitch, but all the information was old as shit, like 2008 old. I don't know what the hell he did to throw Seto's Savior off his trail, but it looks like it worked. The Powers That Be think the only things they could've got out of it were one of his YouTube passwords and his home address." Time stops and it feels like I am frozen in place, the air in my lungs rapidly expanding as his words sink in. It feels like someone is squeezing my heart with an ice cold hand, waiting for me to scream for mercy. This is one of the worst possible endings for this game.

"No. No, we can't let them have that. We need to keep that from getting out."

"Oh, so it was okay for them to get Mitch's info, but as soon as it's Pressy you get all concerned. Nice."

"You don't get it, man. Mitch lives by himself in his own apartment, and he can defend himself or just leave if he wants to. The one they have for Preston… His family lives there, man. He has a sister and two younger brothers who live there. If they're at home by themselves and someone shows up at his house, or if they're walking home from school…"

"Shit, I didn't think about that. See, this's why you can't have drugs, Woof."

"What are we going to do?"

"The guys are working on it, but there're no guarantees. We need to figure out what we're gonna do if it _does_ get out. Like Mama Bac always said, hope for the worst and plan for the best. Or something like that." Jerome has never been more annoying than he is at this moment and I wish I could just mute his call and think about this for a while.

'There has to be an answer. There has to be a way to stop them from doing this and putting Preston's family in harm's way. There has to be something we can do to keep them from realizing what they have, to distract them and draw their attention away from him.'

"Ya know, I don't think I've ever seen you this serious. Pretend to take a chill pill and calm down a notch or two. The last thing we need is for you to stroke out over there. I don't have the time or money to plan your funeral."

"Is there a way we could bait them somehow? Could we set a trap for them and get Zeus or someone to wipe out their computer? That could deal some serious damage to them and protect Preston at the same time."

"You mean you wanna hack the hacker? You realize you're talking about some meta shit right now. Some really _expensive_ meta shit."

"We'll come up with the money somehow. A hacker's service fee is cheaper than three small coffins. Can they do that?"

"I'm sure someone could. I'm thinking of one person in particular… But I don't think she's willing to get caught up in shit this big – she only plays clean-up crew on the night shift. I'll try to call in a favor or two, but she probably won't even get back to us for a couple hours. Hey, Zeus? If you're still tuned in, can you shoot an e-mail over to Trinh, please? Tell her Betty needs to talk." With the hint of a smirk, he leans out of the frame and rustles around in a plastic bag before he comes back with another Monster.

"Your friends can do anything, can't they?"

"Of course they can. Why do you think they call me 'HackSource?' It ain't from hacking in the Hunger Deens, let me tell ya."

* * *

 **June 26, 2012 at 1 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

My life is literally over. It's over. O-ver. And that's me being as undramatic as possible because that's Rob's one job, not mine. Crap, I don't wanna think about Rob right now. I can't even imagine the look on his face when he realizes I fell for their trap and screwed everything up. And I bet he's gonna get blamed for me blowing it. I know I'm beyond the point of him being able to help me, but even if I wasn't, he probably wouldn't help me, anyway. No, he totally would even if he was really pissed at me because that's just the kind of person Rob is. But I don't deserve it. I don't deserve for anyone to help me. I don't deserve to have friends like him or Mitch or even Jerome. I screwed them all over and stabbed them all in the back, and now whoever got into my computer is gonna go after them, too.

And the worst part of the whole thing is that Jerome's the only one who can freaking do anything to help anyone! If I'd screwed up any more, I would've driven the hacker over to Jerome's front door and rang the doorbell for him. I put everyone in danger _and_ blocked their only escape route, too. I lit the fire on the living room rug and nailed all the doors shut so no one could escape, and now I'm just standing outside the window and watching them scream for help and burn to death, and I don't think they'll respawn. I feel like the worst person who ever lived and I'm so angry and ashamed and confused and miserable and humiliated I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore. I don't wanna feel any of it. They did so much for me, and _this_ is how I repay them? Could I do anything worse to them? Seriously?

I glance up at my monitors for the hundredth time and everything looks fine even though it really isn't. I stare at the middle screen until it goes into standby mode and goes completely black. That means I've been sitting here for over an hour just facepalming, but I can't tell if it's been forever or only a second. Time doesn't feel like it's moving anymore. I blink a couple times and push my chair back and walk over to the couch, which is a lot harder to do than it sounds. It's like someone strapped twenty-pound weights to my ankles and my legs don't wanna move. I collapse face-down on the brand new black leather megacouch that seemed so cool at the time but just seems too expensive now. The piece of leftover pizza that sounded so good earlier is only a foot away from my face but just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach now. I turn off the TV and grab the blanket off the back of the couch and throw it over my head so I don't have to see anything anymore. I just wanna lay here in the darkness for the rest of eternity and never show my dumb face to anyone again. I know real life doesn't work that way and something's gonna make me move eventually, but I can pretend for a while, can't I?

This's why no one likes me, isn't it? This's why I only had like three friends until I screwed two of 'em over and now they hate me just like Jerome does. And then Kenny's gonna be mad at me because there's no freaking way I'll be able to get my computer to work in time for us to record together later, and he's gonna think I'm ignoring him because I have no way to tell him what happened. Even worse than that, I'm gonna have to get rid of my apartment already and go live at home again not even a month after moving out. It wouldn't seem so bad if I didn't lose my two thousand dollar security deposit, or if I wouldn't have everyone groaning and making jokes about me not being grown up enough yet, or if Daka didn't still live at home in between deployments and call me a big, fat baby and make my life suck even more. And that's just forgetting about YouTube completely. It doesn't matter if the hacker does it or if Jerome does it, but by the time I have a computer again, both of my channels are gonna be blown off the face of the Earth. Any way you look at it, I'm a freaking loser. This's why no one ever talks to me at holiday parties or remembers my name isn't 'Presley.'

The fan in my computer turns on and I just hope it isn't gonna blow up or something crazy like that. Maybe I read too many scary stories about hackers on Reddit back when I still had internet but that sounds like something that guy would do, and it might be something Jerome would do, too. I wouldn't put it past him. As long as nothing happens to the actual, physical computer, I can hold onto the hope that I cut the internet fast enough to keep that guy from really screwing it up. Maybe if I'm lucky, I can take it to a repair shop when I get paid in a couple days and they can fix it for pretty cheap. If they can take care of it, maybe things won't be so bad after all. At least I could make a new YouTube account under a new name and start over again all by myself. I wish it was that easy to fix everything. I sigh and keep trying to stop the stinging behind my eyes.

"Preston, you look like enough of an idiot right now without bawling your eyes out, too. Pull your ish together, dude." Just sitting here isn't helping anyone, and it isn't keeping me from turning into a sobbing mess because that's all I wanna do right now. I need to keep thinking and try to come up with something. I owe the guys that much at least. "If I was Rob, what would I do?" Now that's just a stupid question in and of itself because Rob would never be dumb enough to fall for a trick like that. He would've seen right through it and hung up and got ahold of Jerome and let him take care of it. He wouldn't just sit there and let LeetFire play with him and get stronger and get into everyone's stuff and screw everyone over. While I was sitting there playing mind games and planning out a future that'll sure as frick _never_ happen now, Rob would've shut down his computer, texted Jerome, and eaten his pizza while it was still hot. He would've waited for the bloodbath to unfold somewhere else instead of jumping into the hacker's welcoming cyber arms. He never would've had to worry about coming up with another plan after he already got murked.

"But what if he did? What would he do then?" He would've started from the bottom 'til the whole team's freakin' here, that's what he'd do. I don't have any better ideas, so I guess this's where I'll start, too. When I have to talk to someone, what do I do? I can use DMs, Skype, e-mail, text, or call them. I have no way of using Skype or a website like Twitter, so the first two are out. I can still e-mail people, but that wouldn't be a smart idea no matter what angle you look at it. If LeetFire hasn't already put viruses on their computers, I'm not gonna be the one to send them some. That just leaves texting and calling. But my phone doesn't work and even if it did, I don't have anyone's numbers anymore because I deleted everything.

I'm at a roadblock and it freaking sucks. I feel like there's a solution to this problem that Rob would've already figured out, and I can just see him sitting there, leaning his head on his hand with his right eyebrow raised while he waits for me to find it. He always does that instead of just giving me the answer, which I guess is a good thing even though it's annoying as frick. If he didn't do that, I'd be even more dead right now than I already am. But what does Rob know that I don't know? What can he see that I just skipped over? He'd have that trolly little grin by now that always makes me smile, too, even though I feel really stupid at this point. This's even worse than trying to figure out redstone mechanics. What am I missing here?

Okay, so the problem is that my stuff doesn't work, but their stuff might still work as long as I don't spread the flames. Could I get in contact with them if I didn't use my stuff? They have computers at the library I could use, so that might work. But what if that hacker guy managed to break into my computer before I pulled the plug and got into my accounts and can spread viruses through there? Then I'd be killing a library computer, too, and they'd hunt me down and make me pay for them to get a new one. I can't afford to buy someone else a new computer when mine doesn't even work. If I didn't use my accounts and tried to contact them with a new username, there's no way they'd be able to weed through all the DMs and e-mails from their fans and pick me out of the crowd. They wouldn't believe me if I said it was me because people do that all the time. Okay, so computers are just completely out of the question, then.

That just leaves phones. I don't get a new phone for like another year with my contract plan, and even if I _could_ afford to just go and get a new one, he could probably use my phone number to melt the new one, too. It'd be dumb to throw money away like that. The carrier company would have all my contact info, though… But I don't wanna risk checking my account online in case the hacker got in there, too. Who knows what that guy can do?

What about regular phones like the ones Mom and Dad have at home? I don't have one but every store in the whole city has a payphone I can use. That could work, if only I had phone numbers for everyone. The imaginary Rob in my head is full-out smirking at me now and I just wanna grab a handful of his messy brown hair and pull on it to make him stop. I hate when he looks at me like that, like he beat me at a game and he's trying not to rub it in even though he totally is. But if he's making that face, I'm getting close to the answer. He'd have sad puppy dog eyes if I was really far off the mark, like he's sorry for me because I'm so stupid.

"I'm still missing something here. Okay, so where can you find phone numbers?" The easy answer would be in phone books, but that's just a dumb idea. Even if their numbers weren't unlisted, there's no way for me to get my hands on phone books for New Jersey or Canada. I could go search for them at the library on the computer, but any information I find will be ancient because they would've changed it as soon as some nutso fan called them or showed up on their doorstep. I give another big sigh and try to think about what people who don't have cell phones do.

Mom had this ridiculous little lime green book she kept in her purse to write the family's numbers in before she bought a cell phone like a normal human. I don't remember writing down anyone's numbers, though. I always just program it right into my phone. Since I only typed it in once, I don't remember what any of them were, either. It does no good to try to remember phone numbers I only entered one time over a year ago, so that's a dead end. How else did Mom deal with being a technophobe for so long? What happened when she forgot to write down a number? She would just check the phone records on the handset. It takes a few seconds for it to click and I sit up immediately and throw the blanket off and stumble into the kitchen.

"Thank you! Oh thank you, God!" Rob would be making fun of the look on my face right now and my prayers, but I'm just too thrilled to frickin' care. I push the orange plastic bowl of Nacho Cheese Doritos into the sink and pull the drawer open so hard it almost falls out on my feet. I dig through the massive stack of scrap paper and envelopes and receipts until I finally find last month's phone bill. I flip through it as quickly as I can and I'm skimming through it so fast that the numbers don't even make sense. I see two numbers that show up over and over and over and over again and I know I found the answer I've been looking for. One of those numbers is Kenny and the other one's Rob, and I can use the timestamps to figure out which one's which. I'll put on some actual clothes and find some change and go over to the grocery store and call Kenny to tell him my computer blew up, then I can call Rob and tell him everything that happened.

"I'm dumb, but I'm not _that_ dumb. You better watch your butt, jerkwad, 'cause there's gonna be a Bacca biting it in a second."

* * *

 **June 26, 2012 at 2 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Whaddaya mean there's no porn on his computer? Are you sure?" Jerome seems genuinely shocked, with his mouth hanging open and an extra large Funyun dangling from his fingers in front of his chin, paused midflight. He looks like a bird, moving his head slightly from left to right as if he isn't sure if he is seeing his second screen properly and wants to get a better view. I try to focus on the conversation without facepalming, afraid that if I close my eyes for even a second I won't be able to wake up again. "Did you check his external hard drive, too? Maybe he stashed it on there."

"Already checked it, boss. This kid's like Mr. Clean: he's so perfect he sparkles," Paul replies in his thick New York accent, his voice as flat and calm as if he had been searching for a pen in the drawer.

"Pfft, tell me about it. You seriously couldn't find anything, though? Not even some Sports Illustrated shots or a Google search or anything?"

"Nada."

"And no kinky shit, either? No handcuffs or tentacles or dead bodies?"

"Nothin', boss. The worst thing I found on there was a search for a walkthrough for GTA IV. That's about as sexy as he gets."

"No kidding. I thought he'd be looking at some anime chicks or dicks or something. I guess he's more repressed than I thought."

"Well, if it's any consolation, he had more e-mails from his mom about dinner and church than even the Pope would know what to do with. Poor kid prob'ly doesn't even know what a dick _is_ , let alone how to use one." Jerome snorts and finally puts the crunchy, yellow ring in his mouth, his eyebrows raised as he bobs back and forth in his chair.

"And here I was, thinking that was all just a big show for the camera. No wonder he's such a whiny little bastard all the time." He chews for a second before he shrugs and puts the bag of chips down on his desk, a spark of amusement still dancing in his eyes. "Anyways, thanks for all your hard work, bro. Go get some rest before the next air raid."

"You too, J. I'll see ya at eighteen hundred hours, unless there's another flyover."

"Sounds _muy bueno_. See ya then." He removes Paul from the call and scribbles down the time on his mystery paper off-screen, his hand reaching into the bag for another greasy loop.

"Are you satisfied now?" I ask as I try not to think too far into Preston's apparent lack of interest in any kind of pornography. It would be just my kind of luck, being attracted to an immature, God-fearing, unromantic, asexual guy nine years younger than me. On the other hand, all of that makes my job of keeping him at a distance even easier: I won't have to worry about him falling for me.

"Oh, I'm more than satisfied, but are you? You have a serious uphill battle ahead of you my friend, trying to woo sweet little Preston with his virgin eyes and flaccid dick. Maybe if you tell him it's a cross, he'll-"

"I think that's far enough. Like I told you before, we're just friends and that is as far as it's ever going to go. It wouldn't work out."

"I ship it."

"You ship anything that would create unnecessary drama. You have questionable taste, Jerome."

"You're really one to be talking about questionable taste. You're the one daydreaming about sitting on a cactus."

"I'm not daydreaming about Preston. I just care about him and I'm worried about him right now. He doesn't handle stress well."

"Neither do you. I'd hate to see you two after you're married and one of you gets preggers and goes into labor. It'll be like The Sims or some shit. That's gonna be one screwed up kid." I just continue staring at him, watching him munch on two more salty Funyuns. "You shouldn't be ashamed of it, ya know. He's eighteen now and it's not like anyone's gonna turn you in for crushing on him when he was sixteen. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You aren't even convincing _me_ with that line. It would be legal now, yeah, but that doesn't mean we would be compatible. I fuck up my relationships fast enough without adding the stress of losing my best friend, too. Besides, I am too old for him. He can barely grow facial hair and here I am, worrying about my hair turning prematurely grey."

"Because you need to learn how to chill, man. You take life too seriously."

"If I was any more 'chill,' I would be frozen solid in my chair with a catheter running down my leg. Pretty soon my therapist is going to need a therapist."

"Now _that_ sounds like a show I'd like to watch! But back to the point, why don't you just give it a try with Pressy, assuming this pot of shit we're boiling in doesn't manage to turn us into shit, too? You seem to have more faith in him than the rest of humanity combined."

"You haven't been listening. Preston and I are only friends, and it is going to stay that way."

"Of course it will, with an attitude like that. Why don't you give him a bouquet of those flowers you love so much? I'm sure he'd like that. He could eat it or put it in his hair or whatever the fuck you do with flowers." He pops one last yellow ring in his mouth and crumples the bag up before throwing it behind him on the table, pretending to make a seductive face while he slurps the salt and oil from his fingers. "I can't tell you too much without charging you a fee, but I'll give you this tidbit for free: I have never seen a guy press his face against another guy's face as much as Preston does it to you. I can't decide if it's adorable or fuckin' creepy, but I ship it. You act like you're the only one who might have feelings here, Woof. If he wants to stroke your beard for you, maybe you should just let him give it a good pet." I try to fight back what may be the most awkward laugh I have ever felt, but it breaks through, anyway.

"Is this how you get so many dates, Jerome?"

"Oh, absolutely. Just ask Trinh if she ever gets her butt on here. The ladies all love me, especially the nerdy ones." He wiggles his eyebrows and leans back in his chair, briefly glancing at his side monitor to see if anything new had happened during his matchmaking show. He turns back to me, looking disappointed and anxious. "Hopefully we'll hear something from the Benj soon. He's been gone for quite a while now."

"He lives on the other end of the city, so it might take…" A loud buzzing noise cuts me off as my phone begins dancing along the bottom edge of my laptop. Someone else is calling me now, but I don't recognize this number and neither does my phone. Jerome's eyebrows are knitted together in confusion and he is peering into his screen to get a better look at my phone, the dark circles under his eyes more visible than ever.

"Go ahead, answer it. But unplug your headphones and put it on speakerphone so I can hear you. Whatever this is, it's gotta be good." I press the green receiver icon and immediately switch it to speaker, the sound of throngs of people and obnoxious beeps echoing in my office.

"Hello?" The background noise in the call is so loud that I wonder if the person calling can hear me, or even if they intended to call me in the first place. Was it a wrong number?

"Hey, Rob? Is that you?"

"Preston? Where are you? What happened?"

"A lot. I just… I wanted to say I'm sorry before I say anything else, and you know how much I hate saying I'm sorry."

"Tell me what happened."

"No, tell _us_ what happened," Jerome corrects as he scoots closer to his monitor so he can be sure that Preston can hear him over the phone.

"Jerome?" Preston squeaks, his voice rising slightly in panic as the Bacca's voice registers over the din of the crowd.

"In the fur and flesh. You're in some pretty serious trouble, mister man. You better be at a Walmart 'cause you're gonna be using your PAX money to pick up all kinds of shit. We'll have a nice, long chat as soon as you get your ass away from that damn Elmo ride."


	17. Chapter 17

**Trigger Warning: If you are easily triggered or if you can't handle disturbing situations, you might want to skip the second section of this chapter. Please see the story description for an updated list of warnings.**

* * *

 **June 26, 2012 at 2 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"And I'll see you in a few, beautiful," I whisper as I run my hand gently along the hood of my shiny black car, setting the alarm as I jog through the parking lot to the front of the store. Unlike the slammed Kroeger store down the road, I hadn't expected Fresh & Easy to be busy. Boy was I wrong. Guess that's what you get for trying to leave your house on a Friday afternoon. I had to drive around the store twice to even find a place to park, and when I finally found a spot it was all the way out in the freakin' boondocks right next to a cart return. I swear I'm gonna pitch a fit if someone hits my brand new, freshly waxed, dentless car with their stupid shopping cart and I won't even be sorry about it. I'm crazy enough about my baby when it isn't a hundred twelve degrees outside and when the world isn't already falling to pieces all around me.

When I finally make it up to the sidewalk, I'm almost out of breath and I lean against the cool, green tile wall right inside the door while I search for the payphone. The air conditioning is blowing my hair back from my sweaty forehead and whipping it all around so my reflection looks like Medusa in the silver claw machine. There's an old lady in a white knitted sweater using the phone so it looks like I'm gonna be here for a while. I already know what I'm gonna say to Kenny so I'm not worried about him, but I don't have a single clue what I'm gonna tell Rob or how I'm gonna say it. And standing here and waiting and thinking about it isn't helping. If it wasn't so important for me to tell him what's going on, I'd probably just call Kenny and go back home and forget all about it. I can't possibly screw this up any more, but I should pull right back outta the whole thing before I somehow find a way to make it worse. If I'm gonna be completely truthful here, telling Rob what I did is the scariest part of this disaster of a day. A broken computer I can deal with, and I'm so used to Jerome being mad at me or being a jerk that I don't even really notice it anymore. He reminds me of Daka. But the idea of Rob getting so ticked off at me that he wouldn't want us to be friends anymore… That's the worst thing anyone could do to me.

The granny at the payphone is still chattering away, with her bright purple glasses perched on her wrinkly old nose and a chain of matching purple beads looping back around her neck to keep her glasses from getting lost. I watch her for a second but it doesn't look like she's gonna move any time soon. I don't know if I like the idea of delaying the inevitable. I take my phone out of my pocket and check to see if it's still frozen, and it is. The screen's turned on full blast with my e-mail app open and it won't let me lock it or turn it off. I decide it'd be better to just take the battery out while I wait, both to preserve the remains of my phone and to keep my mind busy for a few extra seconds.

It hurts to think about not being friends with Rob anymore. It's like we've been friends forever and like we're meant to always be friends. There's just something about him that never fails to make me feel better and makes me smile even if I've had a really crappy day like today. But will he even wanna talk to me after what happened earlier? I mean, Kenny's great and everything and I wouldn't give up my friendship with him either, but it's like… Rob just gets me more than Kenny does. We can sit in a Skype call without talking for twenty minutes and it's like we're still having a conversation. We don't even have to talk to talk, you know?

And it's not just that. It's like I don't have the same limits with Rob that I have with Kenny and my other friends. If we're at a convention or something together and we're bored and feeling dumb, he'll jump on my back and make me carry him around while he spanks me with a foam Minecraft sword, or I'll steal his pop and chug half of it down while he watches and he doesn't even care, or we'll throw down and have a wrestling match in the hotel room because we can't decide who gets the bed by the window, or he'll lose track of time signing stuff at a fan meet-up and I'll walk over and rub my face against his cheek so he can't pretend to ignore me anymore. All my other friends would get really creeped out and stare at me like I'm an alien or call me a name or something. Even my brothers wouldn't put up with me doing any of that stuff. Is this always what it feels like to have a best friend, or is it a little bit more than that?

Okay, I said it. Are you happy now? Are you freaking _happy_ now?! I don't wanna think anything like that, _ever_. But if I said I hadn't already thought it might be something like that, I'd be lying. Yeah, I've thought about it once or twice but that doesn't mean I like thinking about it. I don't even know when I started thinking stuff like that, but the first time I actually noticed it was a couple days after Rob came out back in October, and I realized that dating him would be almost just like dating a girl, only better because he's a YouTube gamer like me and he understands what that means and what I have to do and what it feels like to be busy all the time. So it's only been… like eight months since I started thinking I might have a little, teeny, tiny, microscopic crush on my gay best friend. But they just call that bromance, right? He's still a guy, and it just looks like something else because I don't know what that feels like. That has to be it.

But if I stop trying to run from the bull and get a good look at the horns I'm running from, is it really just a bro-crush? Do guys with a bro-crush get that excited when they see their best friend's calling them on Skype? Do they not wanna let go of them when they're trying to get on a plane to go home after a convention? Do they hold out their hand to help them up off their bed just so they can feel how weirdly cold their hands are? Do they find an excuse to sit next to them at a restaurant or on their bed in the hotel room, even if it's just something stupid like a picture their mom posted on Facebook? Do guys with bro-crushes do that? Maybe, maybe not. But this's getting weird just like everything else that goes on in my brain, and I don't like it. At all.

I don't wanna admit this in the first place, but I especially don't wanna admit it now when Rob probably won't even wanna talk to me when I call him. As soon as he realizes it's me, he'll probably just hang up and not answer his phone again. I screwed up so bad I wouldn't even blame him, even though it'd hurt like heck if I never talked to him again. It hasn't even happened yet and I already miss him like crazy. I wish I made as much money as Mitch so I could just get on a plane and fly up to Canada and tell him in person instead of trying to explain everything on a grody, gum-covered, germ-infested payphone at a crowded grocery store all the way down in Texas. I wanna see his face and watch his reaction and make him hug me one last time before he tells Jerome to come in and bash my head in with his axe.

Then again, maybe it's a good thing I'm thousands of miles away because if I was there with him, I'd probably start crying like a little baby and make myself into even more of a walking joke. I have no control over myself around him and it's just stupid. I'm still embarrassed as all heck about how I acted at the hotel in March, and here I am making an even bigger freak show out of myself. I feel so miserable and so angry and so scared that I'm getting worked up just standing here and I have to clear my throat to make that annoying lump go away. I'm a frickin' mess and it sucks so hard.

"Pull it together, Preston. This's just freaking sad now." I must've said that out loud because the lady walking past me to go into the store put her hand on her kid's back and pushed him to walk faster. Now I'm creeping everyone else out, too. I thought it was just me. I look over and the little old grandma's nowhere to be seen. Great, so I've been standing here moping and talking to myself for no frickin' reason. That's the number one way to look like a total nutcase. Good job, Preston – you're finally good at something.

I feed a quarter into the machine and dial Kenny's cell number, but of course he doesn't answer. He's probably still sleeping and I'm not gonna keep calling him to wake him up. I leave him a really long, really ramble-y voicemail and hang up, hoping he won't get too mad at me for bailing on him even though I have a good excuse. Now it's Rob's turn… I hold the dime in front of the slot but I don't wanna put it in. I don't wanna tell him and have everything come crashing down around me, even though it will whether or not I make this call. It'd be better coming from me than from someone else, and the least I can do is warn him about the hacker. I take a big breath of air and let the coin slide into the machine, my fingers slowly typing in the number I'd circled on the phone bill. It rings a couple times and I hope I can just leave him a voicemail and go back home and hide under the blanket again, but I hear a click on the other end of the call. Did he hang up on me?

"Hello?" Just hearing his voice again makes my breathing slow down a little and makes me forget how loud and annoying everyone else in this store is. My face heats up and I duck into the little black cubicle-thing around the payphone so no one can see me turn bright red. I don't know if it's from me liking the sound of his voice because it's handsome and he makes me feel better when everything else sucks, or because I'm almost on the verge of tears again from all the stress. I'm so confused and happy and mad and conflicted that I don't know _what_ I feel anymore.

"Hey, Rob? Is that you?" Of course it's him, you idiot. You'd know his voice anywhere.

"Preston? Where are you? What happened?" Wait, he was worried about me? He sounds relieved and like he's glad I called him. But why? He doesn't hate me? Or does he not know yet? I have to tell him, I have to apologize.

"A lot. I just… I wanted to say I'm sorry before I say anything else, and you know how much I hate saying I'm sorry." It sounds so lame and so cheesy and so stupid, but I just start rambling so that freaking lump can't come back in my throat. It's a good thing I'm out in public or I'd be losing it right now. My eyes itch and I cover my face with my hand so no one can see how hard I'm fighting it.

"Tell me what happened."

"No, tell _us_ what happened." Oh, frick. That's the Bacca. But what's the Bacca doing all the way up in Canada? What's going on here? Did I screw up so bad that the Bac had to take a plane and go up to Rob's place? Or is Rob in New Jersey? What the frick have I done?

"Jerome?" Crap, my voice just cracked. There's no lying about _that_ now and the Bac's gonna be making puberty and crybaby jokes all the time, if things ever go back to how they were before. If he fixes everything and they're willing to talk to me again, he can kick me out of every game we ever play ever and I won't even complain. He can do anything he wants. Just please, don't hate me.

"In the fur and flesh. You're in some pretty serious trouble, mister man. You better be at a Walmart 'cause you're gonna be using your PAX money to pick up all kinds of shit. We'll have a nice, long chat as soon as you get your ass away from that damn Elmo ride." I involuntarily look over at the little blond girl riding in the Elmo car by the door and I swallow the lump in my throat one last time, grabbing the pen chained to the payphone to write down his list.

"Anything you want, dude. What do you need?"

* * *

 **June 26, 2012 at 3 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

Could these lines seriously be any longer? And could that guy staring at me be any creepier? I turn around so I don't have to look at him anymore but I can still feel his freaky, narrow eyes on my back and it's giving me goosepimples. I don't know if he's checking out my new laptop or if he's checking _me_ out, but it's not appreciated either way. I should've done my laundry on time and worn some jeans or something even though it's the middle of summer and like a million degrees outside. You know your life sucks when you can't even go out in public in basketball shorts because some fudging jerkwad won't stop staring at your lower half or the computer in your hand or something. This must be how girls feel when they see guys checking them out. I won't ever do it again, I swear. This freakin' blows, dude. My clothes aren't even tight, and I'm not even that fat! What's up with this guy? Why's he staring at me like that? I freaking hate Walmart – it's like a weirdo magnet.

Hopefully the Bacca won't need anything else so I won't have to come back and get oogled at again. Dad's already gonna be so mad at me for getting a credit card and charging so much stuff on it. He told me not to depend on credit cards like every five minutes when I was growing up and he's gonna have a meltdown when he sees I did it, anyway. There's just no way for me to make everyone happy at the same time today. I'll get it paid off eventually as long as I get all this stuff and use it to straighten everything out. Now that my reputation's really on the line, I can't afford to use my trip money for PAX and risk not being able to go. I need to be there for so many reasons. But more than that, I'd charge this credit card all the way up to the max if it meant I'd still have a chance to be friends with Rob. I wanna save my channels, yeah, but those are replaceable; Rob isn't.

The line moves ahead a couple inches and I move along with it, glancing behind me in the next line to see if Creepy McCreeperson is still staring at me. He is. Of course he is! And he isn't just staring at me as a whole person, and he definitely isn't staring at my new laptop. Nope. He's staring right at my butt just like a real steel, true blue, brand name creep. Did I really expect him to be doing anything else? I'd tell him off for being such a freaking weirdo, but he doesn't look like someone you'd wanna mess with. He looks like the kind of guy who started out in a biker gang when he was younger but then got too crazy and too creepy for them and they kicked him out and made him live in a wet cardboard box in a back alley just so they wouldn't have to see him again. I bet he smells like an overdue electric bill that someone fermented in a cesspool of dog crap for six months. Even his beard is yellow and he looks like he's got his stank on. Maybe if I keep making fun of him in my head I can ignore him better.

No, I've gotta get back to the important stuff. I did what the Bacca told me to and got a new computer with a butt ton of memory and a disposable cell phone that LeetFire couldn't trace, that way we could stay in contact and work everything out. If I ever make it to the front of this disgusting line, I'm gonna go home and grab my basic recording equipment and some clothes and my toothbrush and stuff and go hang out at a cheap hotel for a couple days and use their Wi-Fi. One of the Bac's radioactive ninja hacker friends set me up a new e-mail account to use for everything, and I have to make a Skype with a fake name they can use to find me but no one else would ever guess was me. Watching my back all the time is gonna be the hardest part. It's only been a couple hours since all this ish went down and I already miss life being simple. But at least I'll get to see Rob again.

A new cashier just came back from lunch and I hurry over to get in her line before too many people get the same idea. And guess who decides to follow right behind me? Mr. Creepy McCreeperson. He's holding a big stack of blank DVDs and a twenty-something-pack of Budweiser and I try not to look at him looking at me. Now that he's closer, I can definitely say he smells like something old and crispy and yellow. I'd take off and go hide in the clothing section for a while and pay for my stuff somewhere else, but I can't just take off with a computer like that or security'll tackle me and drag me into their dreary little interrogation room. I don't wanna be like Daka and have a bunch of stories about me trolling Walmart security. I like to think I'm better than that. Mom's still mad about him pretending to steal stuff in front of the cameras so she would do his school shopping for him, and that was like eight years ago. I don't think I've ever seen her turn that red.

Preston, stop it. Pay attention for like five seconds until you get your stuff paid for and get the frick out of here. I don't want Creepy McCreeperson to follow me out to my car because something tells me that isn't gonna end well. On the other hand, I don't wanna take forever because I need to get online with the guys and find out what's been freakin' happening with the hacker before it gets any worse and I get permanently murked. Maybe if I take the long way out of the store through the food section and cut through the clothes he won't be able to follow me fast enough with his crooked old hippie legs. If I don't touch anything and I don't act too weird, security shouldn't get too suspicious. And even if they do, can't they see this creepy Willie Nelson wannabe stalking me through their store? Is he drunk or something? Does he think I'm someone else?

I finally pay for my computer and phone supplies and a bag of beef jerky and I book it outta there through the metal detectors as fast as I can without looking like I should be in a straightjacket. I take an unplanned detour through the baby section so he won't be able to watch me while he checks out, and I swerve into the aisle with the milk and yogurt and weave in and out of people like I'm playing football all the way up to the registers by customer service. If he can't see me, he can't follow me. I duck between the racks of women's jeans and pretend to check my dead phone while I peek out at the front of the store before I make my next move. He was at the back of the store paying for his stuff like five minutes ago and I haven't seen him anywhere else yet, so maybe he left? It seems too easy but I don't know what else to do. I can't come up with huge, elaborate plans on the spot like Rob and the Bacca can, and if I stand here too much longer security is gonna get freaked out and come after me. I decide to go out the door closest to my car so I can just make a run for it as soon as I leave the store. I get a tighter hold on the handle on my laptop and wrap the sack of supplies around my wrist so I can dig out my keys and be ready to dash. I take one last look around and go for it, praying he won't see me somehow.

I make it through the door and I think I got away hitch-free until I see him smoking a cigarette at the spot right between the two sets of doors, watching. He's been waiting out here for me to get done shopping, just like a real psychopath would. I don't care what I look like anymore: I sprint across the street and get honked at by some lady with fake blond hair and sunglasses and I unlock my car from all the way across the parking lot, like thirty cars away from the door. Why did all this have to go down on a Friday afternoon when there's no freaking parking? I wish I had a Batmobile that could just drive up and get me. I'm about halfway there when a hand closes firmly around my arm and someone spins me around to face them. I either underestimated how fast he could run, or I overestimated how fast I am. This is bad.

"Hey, kiddo. You dropped this." He holds out a hundred dollar bill and his tiny, squinty gray eyes are still watching me as creepy as ever. It'd seem like he was just a nice guy doing the right thing, but I never carry cash on me because it burns a hole in my pocket and I waste it. Whatever scheme he's trying to pull, it isn't gonna work on me.

"Thanks, but that isn't mine."

"It sure looks like it's yours. Here, take it." He holds it closer to my face like he thinks it's gonna tempt me and make me drop my guard and let him grab my other arm. I just wanna get out of here and lock myself in my apartment and forget today ever happened at all. Seriously, this is turning out to be the worst day of my life by a very, very long shot.

"No, it really isn't. I think you have the wrong person."

"You don't look like the wrong person, sweetheart. I'd remember you anywhere." Okay, no. The No Level is over nine thousand right now. This guy's scaring the crap out of me even more than the Bacca does, and Rob isn't here to help me deal with him. Wait, what? What would he do even if he _was_ here? I can benchpress Rob and he hurts himself getting out of bed in the morning. If anything, he looks even less threatening than I do and that's really saying something. I'm in _so_ many different kinds of trouble right now, both online and in real life. "What're you doin' out here all alone like this? A cute little girly like you has to have a boyfriend, right? Why didn't he come with you?" What the frick do I even say to that? Seriously? No, like seriously dude. What the crap?

"First thing's first: I'm a guy. Second, that isn't my money. Can you please let me go now?" I try to shake him off but he holds onto me even tighter. He's a lot stronger than he looks and his nasty, crooked hand is hurting my arm now. I wish he'd grabbed my other arm so I could whack him with my car keys and cut his face up or something. I don't think me telling him I'm not a girl is gonna do a whole lotta good when he's already crazy enough to try to do something like this.

"Sure you are, sweetheart, sure you are. Why don't you let me help you get in your car?"

"Naw, I think I'm good. Thanks for offering." My voice is getting higher and higher as I try not to panic and I know it isn't helping my case. This guy's looking at me like he's some kind of predator and I'm his next meal. Yep, that sounds like a fun time – going to Walmart to buy a computer and getting raped, murdered, and eaten in the parking lot by some kind of sex-crazed cannibal hippie guy. This's so ridiculous it's almost hilarious. I hope I live long enough to laugh about this someday.

"No, I insist." His hand darts around behind me and grabs a handful of my t-shirt like he's trying to grope a feel and I might've laughed if it was someone like Kenny or Rob or even Jerome doing it. But this ish ain't funny. Even though I know it's a really bad idea, I get a good grip on the handle of my laptop box and rear it back and smack him right in the face with it. He grunts and his hands loosen on me enough that I can break free and run a couple feet further before he comes after me again. I know I won't make it to my car before he catches up, so I spin around and put my keys in between my fingers like claws and get ready to deck him one, holding my car key like a knife. I don't look intimidating or even really manly, but I just finished a whole year of weight training and I'm a lot stronger than I look, too. If he gets close enough, I'll jam my car key into his eyeball or his throat and be done with him, or I'll use it to stab him in the gut and kick him when he bends over, Mortal Kombat style. And Dad said I'd never get anything out of playing video games! From now on, if I can't find a spot in the first five cars, I'm not going shopping. This BS is gonna give me nightmares 'til I'm sixty.

"Back off, jerkwad. Keep your hands off me." I try to keep myself from stammering and shaking, but my voice just keeps getting higher. Yeah, I sound really intimidating right now.

"You aren't gonna get away with doin' that. Come here, you little lezbo bitch. I'll show you what a real man feels like." This guy has to be drunk or psychotic or on drugs or something because no sane person looks like this. His eyes are still squinty and empty and he looks like he's about ready to start foaming at the mouth like a zombie. I guess the store security guards can't see this far out in the parking lot because no one's coming to help. It's like a Black Friday brawl on steroids. He pretends to lunge forward a couple times and tries to grab my arm again and I swipe at him with my Wolverine key hand, slowly backing up towards my car. I was waiting for him to throw his big box of beer at me but I don't see it anywhere. He must've just left without paying for it so he could come find me. What a freak. "Come here. I'll be real nice."

"Get away from me, you freakin' psycho! Go crawl in your cardboard box and die!" His face doesn't change and he just keeps coming at me, his greasy gray ponytail fluttering behind him in the scorching wind. He has to be on bath salts or something because he looks like some kind of monster that flies right over the cuckoo's nest every day at three. I don't know how much further away my car is and I'm too scared to look behind me and check. I back into the side of a cart return and grab the cart sticking out of the end and shove it at him as hard as I can to buy myself a little more time. When I hear him grunt, I turn around and sprint to my car and jump in and slam the door shut and peel out towards him so he has to duck out of the way. I bump my front fender on the cart I pushed at him but I don't even give a frick right now. At least I don't think he got my license plate number so he can't freaking hunt me down somehow. I guess it's a really good thing that I'm gonna be spending a whole bunch of time in a hotel room somewhere.

I'm so worked up over Creepy McCreeperson that I shiver all the way home like I'm freezing to death and I can't stop. I don't even think about checking to see if my laptop's okay until I get back in my apartment and lock both locks on the door and set the alarm system. With my luck, his big, ugly, yellow-gray hippie head probably broke the screen when I hit him with it. I double check that the door's locked behind me and grab my hunting knife out of the junk drawer in the kitchen before I open up the computer. I catch myself looking up at the door a couple times while I peel the tape off the stupid little tabs, but I know no one's there. I unpack everything out of the box really quick, praying for the twentieth time today that something will go my way. Surprisingly, everything looks fine. For once I'm glad they put so much styrofoam in these boxes.

"Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you." I stuff everything back in the box and slip the tabs back in to keep it shut, then I run through my apartment like a maniac and pack everything for the trip so I don't waste any more time. Jerome's gonna be mad enough as it is. Finally, I slide my new computer and the sack of supplies on top of all the other crap in my rolling suitcase, and I reset the alarm and make triple sure I lock the door before running down the stairs to the covered parking. Less than twenty minutes after getting home, I'm back in my car with the radio on and a chunk of teriyaki beef jerky in my hand, jamming out to some lame top forties hits as I turn onto the highway and try to forget about Mr. McCreeperson. I keep catching myself checking behind me in the rearview mirror to see if he's following me, but I don't think I have anything to worry about. Even if he finds me somehow, I have a five-inch knife in my pocket and at least one witness who'll see me kill him on Skype so they can testify at the trial. I'm golden now and I've never been more glad to be alive.

"Just forget about it, Preston. It's all over and he's probably sitting in his cardboard box and drinking beer. Just chillax, bud." I wish I was more persuasive.

* * *

 **June 26, 2012 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"What in the seven living hells took you so long? I didn't mean you had to go find a hotel room in Florida!" Preston has a hard time with Jerome's teasing and temper as it is, and today has been bad enough without the Bacca biting his head off, too. He barely looks like himself and he keeps glancing up over the top of his computer with a nervous expression on his face. He looks terrified, like he has been traumatized by something. What happened that shook him up so much? Is he being stalked like Mitch is?

"Sorry, the lines were really freakin' long. I got everything set up as fast as I could but I had some trouble with my computer."

"Are you serious? You broke a brand new computer already?" Jerome looks almost impressed, his tired eyes opening wider than they have been since Paul logged off. He looks as spacey and drowsy as I feel.

"Well, yeah, a little. I kinda had to use it to hit someone in the head. But it was still in the box! I think I just messed up the graphics card a little bit because it has some black dots that keep moving all over the screen when I have Skype open." Jerome and I just sit there in silence, staring at Preston's flushed, panicked face on the screen. "But everything else is fine!"

"P, what the fuck were you doing at Walmart that made you hit someone over the head with a laptop?" Preston gets a disturbed look on his face and stretches his arms behind his head, a sure sign of discomfort. I know him well enough to know that something is seriously bothering him.

"It isn't important. I'll tell you later."

"You can't tell-"

"That's fine. We should get everything set up first, anyway." Jerome glares at me and huffs before he turns back to his second monitor and starts typing away on another e-mail. "What are we doing first?"

"Well, first of all, go get Mitch off his lazy ass and get him online in the other room so the call doesn't echo. An hour and a half of sleep is a hell of a lot more than I got. Then we're gonna make new Skype accounts and connect them with Lava P's new one. Your username's what again?"

"I'm SteaklessFan97 and my name's Elijah."

"O-kay then. You're gonna hafta explain that when we re-call each other because you can't just go around saying you're 'steakless' and not expect people to ask questions." Preston grins and salutes us before he leaves the call, and Jerome just looks at me with a devious smile on his face. "Whaddit I tell ya, Woof. He's been bitten by the bug. Did you see his face when he answered your call? It's like he saw a fucking fairy – no pun intended. And tell me that username isn't somehow a tribute to you. Robbie's got himself a fanboy."

"You should watch yourself, man. I think you might be having hallucinations now." He rolls his eyes and looks at me shrewdly, his fingers laced together and curled up under his chin like a badly-drawn anime schoolgirl.

"Well excuse me for trying to be Captain Obvious here. Just because _you_ can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"We aren't here to discuss metaphysics, Jerome. Who am I looking for on my new account?"

"Just look for Noseferatu. Don't worry: you can't miss it." With a few overdramatic blinks, he ends the video call and I sit there for a moment, staring at my contact list. Even without him directly watching me, I know he still has Zeus and who knows how many other people monitoring me through my webcam and microphone at all times. He might even be watching me in another program right now, laughing at the expression on my face. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and slowly get to my feet to go shake Mitch awake. He is curled up on top of my bed with his hood pulled up to hide his face and block out the light. I feel horrible for having to wake him back up after the last few days he has had, but I agree with Jerome: having him in the call is absolutely necessary. We need to hear the whole story.

"Hey, Mitch. The Bacca wants you." He doesn't budge or acknowledge me at all, a gentle snore issuing from his mouth. "Hey, Mitch. _Mitch_. You have to get up," I say a little louder, walking into the bedroom and poking his leg with my toe from as far away as possible. He becomes very violent if someone tries to wake him up, and after two days of being stalked and harassed, I'm sure his reflexes are sharper than ever. I withdraw my foot and take a deep breath, preparing to do my practiced Mom impression. "Mitchell Donald Trump Hughes, get your fetid fucking feet off of my bed!" My high-pitched shriek startles him awake and he tries to kick me as he sits straight up like a meerkat, his eyes wide and accusing as he stares blankly at me. His hood flops pathetically off of the back of his head and the movement makes him jump.

"Wha…? What do you want?"

"I don't want anything but for you to put your shoes back on. The Bacca wants to talk to you."

"Not right now, dood. Tell him I will talk to him later."

"He isn't going to take 'no' for an answer. Come on, up. I was going to make some coffee." He hides his face in his sleeves and nods slightly, and I walk next door to the kitchen to throw out the filmy remains of yesterday's coffee, watching with an odd satisfaction as the tasteless brown water gets washed down the drain. I start a fresh pot of real coffee and listen to Mitch shuffling around in my room, hoping against all odds that he might be changing his socks. At this rate, I will still be able to smell his rancid feet long after the war is over and he has moved on. He slowly ambles into the tiny living room, his eyes squinting in the artificial light as he looks around for me. I didn't think it was possible, but he looks even more exhausted than Jerome does.

"What's for breakfast, Mom?" he mumbles as he peeks around the corner, searching the countertops for food. I scoff and pull out a couple of clean coffee mugs, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I take the milk pitcher out of the fridge and pour some in his mug. For someone who spends so much time sleeping at other people's houses, Mitch is very picky with his food and drinks. Because of this, my apartment has always been one of his personal hells.

"If you can find it, you can eat it. I have a few cups of ramen noodles, a can of corned beef hash, or a selection of TV dinners for you to choose from, Your Highness."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. It's been six months and you still have absolutely nothing?"

"Hey, you chose to stay with me. You knew what you were getting into."

"At least the last place had room service."

"This place could have room service, too, if Jerome wasn't loaning you his credit card. If he is living off of energy drinks and a family-size box of chips, I doubt he is going to let you order take-out three times a day." He gives me the classic Benja Bitchface and pushes past me to search through the cupboards for something less repulsive to snack on. Unlike Jerome, Mat, and me, he never has to eke out a living on frozen dinners and canned goods. "Oh, and I think there might be a can of expired tomato sauce back behind the hash. Canned goods last a while past the printed date, so if you want it, it should still be good."

"Do you ever shut up, Robert?"

"Will you ever grow up, Mitchell?" He snorts and starts shuffling through each cupboard, one by one, even stopping to check behind the paper plates and coffee mugs to see if I had tried to stash something good where I thought he wouldn't find it. If I had ever had anything good, it would have been consumed long ago. "Are you having any luck?"

"You suck dood."

"Only in your wildest dreams, sweetness."

"Those are called nightmares, Rob."

"Aww, you _do_ think about me!" He smirks and opens the freezer, pulling out each individual TV dinner to examine the misleading, clearly Photoshopped pictures of food on the boxes, analyzing the contents of the purported food like a connoisseur. He pauses with a lasagna dinner in his hand before he puts it back and leans down to check the fridge, a look of resignation on his face. I pour our coffee and put his mug on the counter next to him, deciding to leave him to his treasure hunt before Jerome loses his temper again. His fuse has gotten exponentially shorter the longer we have been sitting at our desks, waiting for Trinh to answer his e-mail. I honestly don't blame him, but I would prefer to not try to moderate a war between him and Preston. A screaming match of that magnitude deserves its own full-length movie.

I log out of my Skype account and relaunch the program before I begin creating a new profile, taking a long drink from my mug while I try to think of a clever username. Deciding to further rub my lack of food in Mitch's face while playing off of my real username, I register as xPancakessx with my fake e-mail address and set my avatar photo as someone's small, brown, fluffy dog. I begin searching for Preston and see that his thumbnail is a blurry photo of one of his eyes, the iris black and endless from the poor lighting in his hotel room. I send a request for a video call and wait for him to answer, hoping he isn't facing the wrath of Jerome by himself; who knows what would happen then. He answers on the second ring with a cheesy smile, dropping his hand from his cheek and leaning back in his chair to get a better look at the screen. Maybe there is a little bit of truth to what Jerome said earlier.

"What's up… Derek? Why'd you pick 'Derek'?"

"Why did you pick 'Elijah'?"

"Mom told me that's what she was gonna name me until she found 'Preston' in some baby book. My bio dad wanted me to have a traditional name like Sam but she didn't like it and changed it just to make him mad." He rarely talks about his biological father and he is always very defensive when he does. I have never heard him talk about it so openly or directly before, especially with a smile on his face. He seems tense and out of character today and it is unnerving.

"You were the troll baby, then."

"Kinda, yeah. But Daka's always been more of a troll than me in every way, shape, and form. Mom said a couple times how much her first husband hated _his_ name. They used to call him 'Big D' just so they wouldn't have to say his real name." I try to hold back my laughter, but I can't help it. I can actually imagine Preston's brother with his omnipresent smirk sitting in his Navy unit's dormitory, telling everyone about the grand adventures of Big D. "I know, right? I think it went to his head. What about yours?"

"Hmm?" He rolls his eyes and pretends to be offended, dramatically throwing his hand down on the table like I had just ruined a nuclear kill streak for him on Black Ops.

"Your fake name. Senpai, plz wake up."

"Sorry, it's been a really long day. I just went with what I thought my name should have been. My real name is really random."

"Pfft, don't talk to _me_ about random names. I get called 'Prestad' and 'Prentiss' and 'Presley' and all kinds of stupid crap. One of my aunts called me 'Persian' one time." He gives me his 'you are being a derp' eyes and both of our faces break into dumb grins. Even with the stress of the hacker situation and the awkwardness of this conversation, he still manages to make me smile. "You never answered my question though. Why 'Derek'?" I had been hoping he would let it drop because I hate talking about my family life, but he is even more persistent than Jerome; if I don't answer him now, he will turn it into a running joke that will never go away.

"It might not sound like a big deal to you, but it's still something that really pisses me off. My mom's name is 'Dale' and my dad's name is 'Darren,' and they named my older brother 'Darryl.' My name is Robert." He can tell this isn't something I want to joke about and he tries to hold a straight face, but he fails.

"Can't even have one job."

"Not even one."

"I didn't even know you had a brother. Huh. Was there a reason for them to give you a weird name or was it just a spur-of-the-moment thing?"

"I mean, it isn't completely out there, but it still doesn't fit. I'm the fifth Robert Latsky in my family; my dad wanted to name me after his dad."

"You know, not everything has to match for something to be perfect." We both fall silent for a few seconds while Preston's awkward compliment soaks in and I could have sworn his face just turned bright pink. "You're _way_ too OCD about everything. Anyways, you look like a Rob to me. I can't see myself calling you anything else besides 'plebface.' " He is talking much faster than he was before and he is trying to pass it off as a bad joke, but I save it to memory to analyze later. I will have plenty of time to think when everyone else is either sleeping or sleepwalking; this is the best, and worst, part of having insomnia.

"I thought we agreed that you would call me 'senpai.' "

"Yeah, but I think I've done enough flob-a-dobbing around for one lifetime. I'm ready to get a job now."

"You had better watch yourself, kohai-kun. Today isn't the best day to try to leave the nest." He absent-mindedly rubs his nose, his facial expression and body language both displaying his nervousness in full view. Whatever happened to him earlier still has him spooked.

"I know, I know. I really screwed up and I don't even know where to start telling you how sorry I am."

"Don't worry about it, man. We'll get everything taken care of once Jerome and Mitch join in." I turn around and wheel away from my desk, looking down the hallway to see if Mitch is still in the kitchen searching for a meal. The light has been turned off and he is nowhere to be found. "Hey, Mitch! You had better not be asleep again!"

" 'M naw! 'M trin a eeh!"

"Okay!" Preston is bent over in laughter, his left hand covering his eyes and his quickly reddening face. Why does he have to be so fucking adorable all of the time?

"He should make his screen name 'Haymitch.' That's all you ever call him, anyway," he chuckles as he rests back in his chair, trying to calm himself back down. I catch him glancing over the top of his computer again and his smile fades a little. I need to remember to ask him about that after the other two go to sleep.

"No, he should make his name 'Oymitch' so I can scream it at him every time he goes back to the kitchen to raid my fridge. I won't have anything left in two hours." He looks confused for a second, his eyes squinting as he cocks his head to the side.

"Wait, so Mitch is actually at your place? Is Jerome there, too?"

"No, Jerome is in Jersey at his apartment, but Mitch is bunking with me for a while." His head tilts upright again, but it seems like the idea of Mitch staying with me is bothering him. Is it because he is concerned for Mitch's well-being or… does he look jealous? I have to be seeing things now. I shouldn't let Jerome get to me like this, not when my pills are still in full effect.

"Why's he doing that?"

"His computer was hacked and they gave out his personal information to everyone on Earth, including his address. There were people standing outside his apartment building, and someone slashed his tires when he went to a motel to escape. Jerome made him ditch his car and he is going to stay with me until everything blows over."

"That's why I had to get a room, isn't it? I screwed up that bad."

"Don't quote me on this, but the Bacca made it seem like they didn't get much of your information. You should ask _him_ about that, not me." Preston opens his mouth to say something, but he is interrupted by a video call request from someone named Syrupylonggut. "Hey, Mitch? Are you 'Syrupy'?" Preston breaks into another fit of laughter and beats the palm of his hand on the dark wood table in his room.

"Yes, dood. Who else would be 'Syrupy'?" he yells back to Preston's delight as I answer his call.

"Hey man, I just wanted to check. I thought you would be 'Salty.' My pancakes were getting nervous over here."

"Fuck you and your pancakes and waffles and all of the rest of your nonexistent food," he mutters as he takes another bite of his tasteless lasagna, his face wrinkled in bitterness. I hold back a sigh of disbelief when I see he is sitting on my bed, the nightstand pulled over to hold his laptop. If he stains my sheets with tomato sauce, I swear I will never help this pig again.

"Aww. Thanks for the offer, Donald, but we can't do things like that on camera." I wink at him and he rolls his eyes before he goes back to cutting up his crispy, overcooked pasta. Preston seems even less amused than him.

"Wait, I thought you said your middle name was 'Donnell.' "

"That's the joke, Purrston. You've got the eye of the tiger, mate."

"How did you find my account, Mitch? I haven't even added Jerome yet," I ask, draining as much of my coffee as I can before I forget about it, like always.

"Zeus connected me. He knows everything, doncha know?" I nod as I search for Jerome's fake account, stopping when I see that the third result in the list is a cropped picture of his nose from one of Mitch's photos from PAX South. True to his word, he was nigh unmissable. I send him a request for a video call and wait for him to pick up, half expecting him to have fallen asleep while he was waiting for us. On the contrary: he is typing furiously on his other screen, his face turned away from his webcam when he answers my call.

"Took ya long enough. I coulda driven to your front door in the time it took you three to get your shit together."

"You weren't the one who had to awaken and feed the Mitchell."

"Sut uh. 'M al'oss duh." He begins shovelling the dry pasta into his mouth even faster than before, throwing the paper container down and raising his hands up in the air in victory after he gets the last bite in his mouth. "Done. Are you happy now, Mr. Fatsky?"

"You are really one to talk, Fridge Boy. You have one strange fetish, my friend."

"At least I know how to use a fridge. Maybe if you would get a job, you could learn how to use one, too." Jerome snorts at our ridiculousness and pops open another Monster to prepare for storytime, and Preston has a strange half-smile on his face, like he isn't paying full attention.

'What is with him today? Is he okay? This is really worrying me now.'

"You know, that's funny. I don't remember the last time you paid for your own food, Benja. Maybe you should think about getting a job, too," I add while he chugs on a full glass of milk, his eyes crossed to look at the cup. He wipes a few drops of milk from his face while he sets the nearly empty glass down, his eyes locked on his webcam.

"Say that again and I'll come in there and Benj _you_."

"Alright alright alright!" Jerome interrupts, smacking his lips to break up our pretend fight. "Everyone good to go? Great! The council is now in session."


	18. Chapter 18

**June 26, 2012 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Why don't you go first, Mitch? I mean, you _were_ the one who pressed the red button," Jerome says while Mitch continues glaring at his camera, pulling his hood up to cover his bed head. Although I have already chosen a side and would be loath to abandon two of my last true friends, I have a bad feeling about this tale he is about to tell; I might be on the right side for this battle but I feel like I am on the wrong side of the war. Regardless, I owe my career to Jerome and my life to Mitch, and I refuse to turn around and walk away from them when I can finally do something to repay their kindness. I refuse to be a fair weather friend when they built my life from the ground up for me. Preston, on the other hand… He will have to make his own decisions and cut his own ties.

"What about the Nooch?" Mitch asks, scooting backward to put his back against the headboard of my bed and pulling his computer onto his lap.

'How classy: now my bedspread it going to smell like his feet and my pillows are going to smell like his ass. Why did I expect anything better?' Jerome leans over to his third monitor and runs his finger down a list, squinting at the text.

"No wild Mats have been spotted online since… about three days ago. He said something about going outta town, so I'm guessing he's still on his little vacation. Must be fucking nice." He grabs his Monster and takes another huge swig, his eyes narrowed in bitterness. "Anyways, back to the point. You've got the hookah, Benj. Give it a puff and pass it on." Mitch sighs and rubs his tired eyes while he nods, buying himself a few more seconds of silence.

"Well, it started Wednesday afternoon when we were in a Skype call with Sky, Husky, Dawn, Kermit, and Deady. Everyone else wormed their way out of it, as usual. We'd been planning to ask Seto to leave Crafted for a couple of weeks, and somehow he'd found out about it beforehand and started having a complete shit fit. He wanted to be a part of the team but he didn't want to give a single inch in any direction and he was just bogging all of us down. We finally decided to confront him about it and tell him that we were tired of dealing with him being a self-absorbed ass, and we brought him into the group call to ask him to leave the team peacefully. Of course, they put Jerome in the spotlight and asked him to give him the news."

"I always get all the dirty jobs."

"That was the first thing that pissed me off. So our terms were that he would just leave and let everything settle down, and that he could go his own way and do his own thing and we would do ours. We wanted to end on good terms. We never said anything about attacking him, or shutting down his channels, or ruining his personal life, and the Bac and I made it very clear that we were still willing to work with him on the side if he was up for it. We had no hard feelings toward the guy."

"Nada. He always got on _my_ nerves, but other than that he seemed like a real stand up guy."

"When Jerome finished telling him about the team's decision, Seto turned it all back on him and started attacking him, saying that Jerome had manipulated all of us into getting rid of him so he could replace him with one of his lackeys. He thought Jerome and I were trying to take over Crafted and that we were somehow going to use it to capitalize on all of their hard work, like we hadn't done anything all this time and like we'd do something like that. It sounded like he'd been pretty paranoid about the whole thing for quite a while and that he knew it was coming."

" 'Cause he's a fucking nutcase, Mitch!" Jerome yells, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. Preston seems concerned at this point, like he doesn't believe their story or he doubts their motives. Although I agree that their morals might be dubious at times, commandeering Team Crafted seems too large-scale and too risky a project for Jerome, and without his friend's connections, planning, and power, Mitch would never have been able to pull it off. Given the alternative, I believe Mitch's story a bit more than I doubt it.

"No kidding. He kept screaming about how we were traitors and that we were just in it for the money and that we were using people. He went on and on and on for at least two minutes, and every time someone tried to stop him and help him get his shit together, he'd just start all over again like we hadn't already heard him."

"And that's when he asked for a vote."

"Yeah, get this. He didn't believe Jerome when he said that no one wanted him there, so he asked us to vote in chat about whether he stayed or left, that way we couldn't lie about how we voted when we saw what the others typed. And guess what?"

"It was unanimous." Jerome finishes off his energy drink and pounds the can on the table like a gavel, sending tiny droplets of light green liquid flying out of the top of the can.

"Everybody wanted his ass out! Everybody, including Adam! Of all the times I wish I could've seen his face… I would've paid a hundred bucks to see the look on Seto's face when the votes came in. He was quiet for a long time-"

"Then he started bawling."

"-and then he started bawling."

"Like a fucking baby!"

"He just lost it and started pleading with all of the others to let him stay and said that they shouldn't let us take advantage of them like that. He was trying to turn everyone against us to start a big fight because he knew that that was his only shot at redemption. He thought if he got the Bac and me kicked out that they would let him stay, even though he brought nothing but problems to the team. Everyone just sat there in shock like they'd never seen anything like it."

"Well, let's be honest here, Mitch. _I_ sure as hell hadn't seen anything like it."

"And I could go another nineteen years without seeing anything else like it."

"Everyone was staring at their monitors like they just saw Satan turn into a fluffy purple rabbit in a tuxedo. And he didn't even have his webcam on!"

"He wouldn't own up to his problems and he didn't even _try_ to change – he wanted everyone else to deal with his shit like he was the greatest thing that ever walked the fucking Earth!" Mitch pauses for a moment to collect himself again, taking a deep breath to cool his temper. "I think the funniest part was that he couldn't even earn himself any sympathy votes – his little waterwork show was all for nothing."

"He got Deady Dearest. But we all knew that was gonna happen, anyway. He was the only one who could stand Seto for more than five fucking minutes so he naturally tried to get everyone else to jump ship so the king could get his fat ass back onboard. Always out to serve his own ambition." I can see Jerome's eyes focus on a new spot on his screen, and I know he is staring at Preston's video feed right now. Even though I can understand his skepticism and distrust of the newest and most ambitious member of our group, I don't see the parallels between Seto and Preston that he sees. I am feeling a case of déjà vu right now as history repeats itself: Preston is to Seto as I am to Deadlox. In times like this, I wish I was as amoral as Jerome pretends to be; it would save me so much stress and guilt.

"So now we have Seto and Ty going around pleading for scraps of pity from the Crafting Table. The only difference is that Ty wasn't trying to pin all of this on Jerome and me. As soon as Seto saw that they were singing different tunes, he threw Ty overboard, too, and started in on him. That _really_ pissed me off. Seriously, how much lower can you get when you start stomping on your last friend?" Mitch pauses and finishes his glass of milk, examining the empty cup in his hand in silence.

"So… What happens next?" Preston asks quietly, his face still suspicious and uncertain.

'At least I managed to teach him to stay out of conflict as long as possible. I might have made an impression on him, after all.'

"After that…"

"Mitch lost it. He completely fucking lost it and went Super Saiyan on Seto. Now _that_ was a sight to see."

"I liked to think that Ty and the others were my friends, and I couldn't just stand by and let this controlling, insecure asshole with a Napoleon Complex bully them into making a decision they didn't want to make and would regret for the rest of their careers. So yeah, I lost it. Any decent human being would have done the same thing."

"Even though none of them did it for you."

"Yeah…" The call falls silent again and Mitch puts his glass back on the nightstand, a pained expression on his face.

'If he had truly tried to make things right and stand up for his friends without any ulterior motives, this is the worst possible outcome for him. He thinks he lost all of his friends except for Jerome, and he thinks he might lose Preston, Mat, and me by telling us this story. To top it all off, he might lose his career, too. He may have made some bad choices, but he doesn't deserve such a disproportionate punishment if he is telling the whole truth. To be practical, though… what did he have to gain by pushing Seto out?'

"When he started in on Jerome again and threatened to expose some 'truth' he'd come up with, I just decided to shut him up. Nothing anyone was trying to say to him was soaking in and I realized there was nothing we could do to save him. We tried to be fair and we tried to be nice about it, but you know what they say about nice guys finishing last. It was over."

"And that was when the first shot was fired."

" 'The shot that was heard around the world and played a million times over again on YouTube.' But you know what, biggums? I'd do it again in a heartbeat." Jerome gives him a weak smile and leans back in his chair, satisfied with what may have been Mitch's first true display of loyalty in the history of their friendship.

'How touching. I wonder how good Mitch's poker face is.' Even after knowing him for almost three years, something about Mitch makes me hesitant to trust him, even though I wouldn't be sitting here listening to this story if it wasn't for him. Something tells me that if the roles were reversed and it had been Preston and me in that call, he would've demanded that Jerome back away from the situation with his hands up so that they could both make a clean getaway and pretend that they had never heard about it.

'Am I really so cold-hearted that I have to doubt my friends? Am I paranoid now, too?' I reach for my mug and finish off my lukewarm coffee, hoping to keep my face blank and neutral. The last thing I need is to make enemies here.

"How'd you shut him up, exactly?" Preston asks hesitantly, as if he doesn't want to know how the Bacca runs the world.

"He dropped him from the Skype call."

"Then all hell broke loose," Mitch sighs, raising his eyebrows in a weak attempt at sarcasm.

"Ya know how the air gets really still and quiet right before a hurricane hits? That's what it was like. Everyone just sat there staring at their screens for, what? A good minute? Then Seto's magic spell set in." Mitch rubs his eyes again and nods along as Jerome speaks, squinting in the fading light when he looks at the screen again.

"I don't know what they were saying because everyone was screaming at me at once, but I know they dropped me like it's hot from the call."

"They kept _me_ in, though. At least for a couple minutes. Ty and Adam were telling me that just because Mitch left Crafted didn't mean I had to, too. And I was like 'When did he say he was leaving?' and they told me that as soon as he turned his back on his friends he chose to leave. I don't know what the fuck they were thinking or where they got that from. They're all a buncha morons."

"So am I," Mitch groans with an apologetic expression on his face.

"Yeah, you're a moron, too. But at least you're a moron I _like_ and I'm willing to put up with your moronicity. What you did wasn't smart, but at least you tried to do the right thing."

"Doing the right thing doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that you're willing to play the game. I broke the rules and now we're both out."

"Quit your bellyaching, Bitchy Mitch. We both knew they were all pointing guns at each other's heads, anyway. They were just waiting around like cowards until someone else fired the first shot so they could pin it on them when it went south. You coulda sneezed too loud and a certain _someone_ woulda blamed you for making Seto cry."

"You really think she did this, don't you?"

"Who else woulda had the means and the peeps, Benj?"

"What are you guys talking about?" Preston has his head cocked to the side in confusion like a puppy, his eyebrows scrunched together in frustration as he tries to put the pieces together.

'If he was any cuter… No, don't go there. If I cross that line, everything is going to go down in flames.'

"Nothin'. That's for the grown-ups to worry about, Pressy."

"Don't call me 'Pressy!' "

"You should be happy he doesn't call you 'Ton-Ton.' That was his first choice," Mitch snickers while Preston's eyes narrow defensively.

"Are you callin' me fat?"

"You've been awful quiet, Woof. What're you thinking?" Jerome asks as he swoops down and grabs a tiny bag of Fritos from his 32-pack box of chips.

"Honestly, not much. So far I am the only one who hasn't gotten in any trouble. Life seems pretty peachy from where I'm sitting."

"Part of that's because you're a lazy ass and you slept through the first shoot-out, and the other part's because you're smart enough to keep to yourself until you hafta get involved. You didn't go try to play detective like Pressy did."

"What'd I do? The hacker came and found _me_! I was tryin' to watch some TV when he called me and fudged up my computer!"

"Why the fuck did you answer the call?"

"Would it've made any difference if I-"

"Can't you two just calm down until we get done with Jerome's little circle jerk? Let me finish my story before you start in on yours."

"Fine." Preston slumps back in his chair, traces of a scowl still lingering on his face. Jerome is crunching on his chips with a satisfied smirk, watching Preston sulk on his screen.

"Heh. 'Cam' down," the Bacca chuckles, popping another handful of food in his mouth.

'This is what I get for surrounding myself with children.'

"What happened after they dropped me from the call?"

"Like I said, they tried to convince me to stay. Then Sky said something about how he hopes we can still be friends after all this 'cams' down, and Dawn said something really snide about taking a vote on _that_ before they decide. I asked her what she meant by that and she said 'I hope your game was fun while it lasted' and dropped me, too. After that, I called Paul and Zeus to get their asses outta bed 'cause I knew nothing good was gonna come from a fire fight with Seto and his cronies."

"Was it really Seto, though?" Mitch asks as he fixes his hair and readjusts his hood, one of his nervous habits.

"That's a whole other cauldron of shit. Just let it simmer for a little bit longer – I wanna hear what happened with Pressy before we pick our scapegoat." Preston rolls his eyes, throwing up his hands in defeat.

"A couple hours later, I got this stream of Twitter notifications that made my phone go off continuously for five minutes. It was like… as soon as the little tweet sound finished playing it would just do it again, over and over again for five straight minutes. I eventually got up to see what was going on, and someone had hacked into my Twitter account and was spamming me and all of my followers with the same message."

"Something about him betraying Crafted and ripping the team apart."

"Yeah. Just over and over. It sounded like I had a fucking aviary zoo in my living room. So I used my phone to go on Twitter to delete my account or just... _anything_ at that point, and the screen blinked twice and it died. It hasn't worked since."

"It worked long enough for _them_ , though. They didn't get much (thank Notch), but they wormed their way into your bank account app and drained every last dollar out of it plus a few hundred more, then they took your landline phone number and apartment address and smeared their digital feces all over the internet. You're lucky they didn't get your social security number."

"I'm going to change it, anyway. I won't just sit around and let some childish asshole ruin my life for the next thirty years over a ten minute Skype call. Not fucking worth, dood."

"And now we come to the end of the tale. Mitch grabbed all his important shit and stuffed it in his car and he took off the second he saw the goon squad hangin' around outside his apartment. He went to a motel until Rob offered to let him stay at his place, but at that point someone had already knifed his tires in the parking lot. So now he's gotta repair his car, too."

"You left out the best part: I caught one of those creepy fuckers using a reverse lens to look in through the peephole on the door of my apartment. After that I was just like 'I'm out.' I grabbed a pair of meat scissors from the kitchen and packed my bags and peaced the scene. I'd be surprised if I have anything left when I go back home."

"That seems kinda excessive, doesn't it?" Preston asks as he glances up over the top of his computer screen for the hundredth time, his eyes wide in… surprise? Or is it fear? Jerome snorts and bobs his head a few times.

"Did you forget how the internet works? You didn't seriously think the fuckery ended as soon as you logged out of Reddit for the day, did ya? The interwebs are full of psychopaths and trolls and stalkers and all kinds of scary shit, and they take every chance they get to have a little get together and pull out the overpriced throwing knives they bought at the last anime convention. The internet's just one big, smelly, never-ending dick measuring contest, Lava P, and the sooner you realize that, the better."

"If they can have things like Anonymous and WikiLeaks, why can't they have little bands of cyber vigilantes who put on their homemade Darth Vader cosplay robes and leave their mom's basement for more than an hour? Is it really that surprising?" Mitch asks in his troll voice with his left eyebrow raised, the first sign that his actual personality is beginning to return.

"Is that what you saw, Benj?"

"Who the fuck knows? Do you want to go over there and check it out for me? Let me know what you find. Take a picture so it'll last longer." Jerome snorts loudly and dumps the rest of the chips in his mouth before crumpling up the bag and tossing it behind him with the multitude of other bags he had already finished.

"So that's the story of how the Benj and Bac barely escaped from the Fire Nation with their lives, and how Rob finally got Mitch to sleep with him. The end."

"What?" Preston doesn't seem amused, but then again, neither does Mitch.

'He needs to grow a sense of humor. How can he be best friends with Jerome and not be able to take a joke? More importantly, why is Preston acting so weird about it? I thought we were over this.'

"You three are a barrel of fucking laughs. Cut me a break here, will ya?"

"I thought it was funny," I reply while Mitch rolls his eyes and Preston just looks at me blankly. Jerome nods in satisfaction and checks his other computer screen again before slowly leaning toward his webcam.

"Pressy, I think… I think it might be your turn. Oh, Pressy!" he moans, barely above a whisper before he makes a long, wet slurping sound and sits back in his seat. The other two jump at the loud noise and glower at him, Preston's face a bright pink. I can't tell if he is angry or embarrassed, but he doesn't look happy either way. I just laugh at their nonsense, much to Jerome's pleasure, and I can see Preston scowling at me on his screen.

"Come on, dood. Get on with it so the Bac will let me go back to sleep."

"Sleep! Don't you fucking talk to _me_ about sleep!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, guys. Let the poor lava mob speak," I interrupt. Mitch glares at me again and Jerome has his usual smirk on his face as he reclines in his chair, ready to hear the tale. Preston sighs and brushes his hair to the side for the umpteenth time today before he starts.

"So I think I should start off by sayin' that I didn't know any of this was going on when all that crap went down at my apartment. I didn't know anything about Team Crafted or Seto or Mitch or anything else. I thought everything was fine and it was just a regular day, or I would've done stuff differently. Okay?"

"Hokeyp."

"Sure."

"I don't know how the fuck you _couldn't've_ known about it, but okay." I focus on Preston's face during his story, watching his body language and his eyes to see if he lies or leaves anything out. I know I will get the full truth from him eventually, but I would rather have peace of mind if, by some miracle, someone in our group decided to tell the full truth without Photoshopping it first.

"Alright. So I was just chillin' in the living room watching TV and waiting to record some COD with Kenny when I heard my Skype go off in the next room and I went over to see who it was. I'd never heard of the guy before and I thought it was just a fan or someone trolling me, so I decided to answer it to tell 'em to frick off."

"Did you actually answer the call, or did it answer itself?" another voice asks through our headphones, the low pitch causing everyone to jump.

" _Jesus_ , Zeus! Tone it down a little!" Jerome shrieks as he jerks his headphones off, glaring up at the webcam with a comical frown on his face.

"Sorry," the deep baritone voice responds with a hint of laughter while Mitch adjusts his hood and earbuds again. Preston rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment while he talks.

"I thought I answered it… I mean, I don't really remember clicking the button but I know I switched it to audio-only so whoever it was wouldn't see me all messy and grody."

"Look at fucking Johnny Bravo over here. I swear, you and Benj are one and the same." They both glare at him, Preston with just a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. "You know they were watching you through your webcam, right? If they really want to, people can see you even when you tell them not to look." Preston gulps visibly and looks over the top of his computer again, checking to see if anyone had materialized in his room with him.

"What was the username?" Zeus asks, the sound of furious typing audible through his headset microphone.

"His name was 'LeetFire,' like the hacker leet-thing with the L and the F both capitalized. I got his e-mail address in my really old inbox, too, if you can get that somehow. He said his name was Jared and he got my Skype from Dawn." At this, Jerome's eyes widen and his face breaks into a wide grin, like he had just won a round of Hunger Games against all odds after Mitch had already lost.

"I told ya, Benj! I fucking _told_ ya!" he yells as he points animatedly at the screen, spinning around in his computer chair in triumph while Mitch snorts and covers his face with his sleeves.

"I didn't want to think that Adam would try to play us like that. I didn't want to believe it."

"Benj, I never said it was Adam. I said it was Dawn. Seto might've had some connections but he doesn't make anywhere near enough money to pay for a hack job like this. Getting into bank accounts and remoting computers and webcams isn't cheap, trust me. Those are on a whole other level of illegal and whoever did it'd face a shit ton of jail time if they got caught. No, I didn't think he had the friends or funds to do it, but Dawn has access to everything Adam has, and Adam has a helluva lot. What a manipulative bitch."

"So are you guys gonna go find him and kill his computer or… How does this work?" Preston asks haltingly, hoping he doesn't overstep his boundaries into a danger zone.

"Zeus's gonna see what he can find, but I wouldn't count on him finding much. Whoever this LeetFire guy is, he knows his shit. Besides, he woulda got your Skype from his attack on Mitch's computer so that trail's cold – she couldn't've had it so saying her name must've been a slip-up. Anyways, please continue your story, Pressy." Preston snorts in indignation and relaxes back in his chair again with his arms crossed.

'He is still so defensive. If only Jerome would stop teasing him, I could read him better.'

"So I think I answered the call but now I'm not really sure. He started talking as soon as I answered it like he knew I was about to answer, which I guess he _did_ know if he was watching me. He said he was yours and Mitch's friend and that he was working with Team Crafted on some kind of server project, then he said something about someone leaving the group and them wanting me to join to help 'em out." Mitch and Jerome both look at the screen with their eyes wide in shock, and I know I must not look much different. It was the perfect plan to get Preston to give in and let his guard down. Whoever did this knows more about us than we would like to think.

'This is an entirely different kind of monster. Whoever is behind this is not only trying to ruin our careers, but they are trying to ruin our ties, too. Who could be so desperate to screw with us?'

"Shit just got real," Jerome says quietly as he grabs his notebook offscreen and starts jotting down notes, his forehead wrinkled as he writes. "Looks like they've been watching us for a while now. That's never a good sign."

"Do you want me to keep going?" Preston asks and Jerome nods furiously while he writes down his list of suspicions and predictions, trying to come up with a sturdy battle plan. He would have made an amazing lawyer if he hadn't started doing YouTube. "He just kept trying to persuade me to join and he tried to pressure me into it because they were running out of time or the others needed to know right away or… before you and Mitch found out and said I couldn't join." I can tell this last part is difficult for him to say, and he looks like he regrets mentioning it as soon as it leaves his mouth. Mitch raises his eyebrow in uncertainty and Jerome looks up from his paper with a vacant expression on his face, waiting for Preston to say something.

"And then?"

"He said something about you two not wanting me to join, and something about how I shouldn't trust Rob because he was just using me for views."

"Did you believe him?" I ask, and he looks kind of guilty for a second before he shakes his head.

'He's lying now. Whoever this guy is, he is very persuasive. It wouldn't be too hard to get Preston to turn against Jerome, but to make him doubt me… This is a lot more serious than I thought.'

"Not really. I mean, the whole thing seemed too sudden and way too good to be true. Plus, it was really suspicious that he kept coming up with reasons for me not to talk to any of you guys about it first."

"Divide and conquer," Jerome mutters and he finally puts his pen down on his paper and moves it away from the screen, as if someone was peering in through his webcam to read his notes.

"So I thought 'This isn't real, he has to be after something else,' and I just went along with it for a little while to see if he'd give me any more information or slip up on something."

"So you're saying you were trying to find evidence that it _was_ real because you wanted to jump right in and get started. That's what it sounds like to me." Jerome is watching him with a cold stare, his temper beginning to flare up once again.

"No, I didn't say that. I knew it couldn't be real because he was just too… I don't know how to describe it. He was too determined to get me to say 'yes', ya know? He was trying too hard to be persuasive and it just sounded really fishy. I knew something was wrong and I wanted to find out what it was so I could tell you about it."

"Right. Yeah fucking right. You wanted to read the terms and conditions and see what it felt like to sign your name on the line before you called to tell me someone was trying to sell you a car. Do you have any idea how much trouble that one phone call would've saved? Or is that not fucking sparkly enough for you to waste time thinking about for more than a nanosecond?!" Preston shrinks visibly in his chair and he looks like a kicked puppy as he stares pitifully at the screen. "Who the fuck do you think you are, over there playing super sleuth like you don't know nobody?! It isn't just _you_ anymore, Preston; it's _us_. All of us."

"I know, I just-"

"No, you don't know shit! There was no excuse for you to put all of our asses on the line so you might have half a snowflake's chance in hell at moving up the ladder! You had no reason to answer that fucking call, and you had even less reason to keep talking to him when you knew what he was after! You should've pulled the plug on your computer and texted me that something was up instead of playing fucking 'Harry Potter and the Dumbass's Nuts!' "

"I'm not a sell-out!"

"Like hell you're not! And fish breathe cyanide!"

"I'd never do that to you guys! I was just trying to help!"

"Bullshit. That is absolute, one-hundred-percent pure _bullshit_! You knew what you wanted and you went for it!"

"Yeah, you're right! I put myself in danger to try to find a way to help you get him! Of course I freakin' went for it! What'd I have to lose when he already caught me? What was I supposed to do, sit there and let him get you guys, too?"

"Tell me one fucking thing you did besides place a bet with all our names written on it!"

"I got his info! And I protected you guys!"

"Do you two hear this shit? Do you hear this, Rob? Do you see why I didn't want to put up with his shit anymore?"

"Okay, enough. Both of you have to calm down so we can-" I try to intervene while Mitch just stares, his face as blank as if he had fallen asleep sitting upright.

"What is he talking about, Rob? Were you-"

" _Preston_! Both of you need to shut the fuck up! Let's try to figure out what happened before we start pointing fingers and calling names." Jerome's face puffs up before he lets out a long breath and covers his face with his hands, leaning back in his chair in disbelief. Preston looks wounded, like I had betrayed him when he needed me the most. "What happened after you figured out he was trying to screw with you?" He rubs the side of his nose in frustration before he crosses his arms again and continues glaring at the screen.

"He seemed too suspicious and I didn't trust him and he wanted to send me something in an e-mail. I wasn't really thinking at the time because I was too freaked out, but I wiped my phone's memory under the desk while we were talking and I played along so I could find out what he wanted without screwing you guys over. I didn't want him to get your info and attack you, too. So I had nothing in my phone and I gave him a really old e-mail address that I didn't think had anything important in it, and I opened the e-mail on my phone. He wanted me to forward the e-mail to a bunch of other e-mail addresses he added to the recipients list, but it just so happened that he didn't have yours or Mitch's e-mails and he wanted me to type 'em in. That was the biggest red flag ever. It didn't look like anything and I thought it was okay and I could just tell you what happened right after, but as soon as we ended the Skype call my phone stopped working and the only thing it'd let me do is send that message. I tried to use my computer to call you and Rob and figure out what to do but that was broken, too. So I unplugged my modem and just… sat there."

"Sat there trying to remember our e-mail addresses, or sat there thinking about how fucking stupid you are?" His voice is rising again and I know that this is going to be a very long next few days.

"I didn't know what to do, okay? I couldn't use my computer or any of my accounts to contact you, and I didn't have your number in my phone anymore. I was in shock and I didn't know what to do!"

"Were you tryin' to figure out if they'd be able to nuke me fast enough so you could get away scot-free? Is that what it was?! It took you fuckin' long enough to tell us what happened! If it wasn't for Zeus and Paul, we'd all be fuckin' toast right now!"

"If I'd wanted to screw y'all over I woulda given him your e-mails! You think they're that hard to remember?! But he didn't getcha, now did he?! If I'd believed anything he said, he would've beat the crap outta all three of y'all!" I try not to crack a smile as Preston's usually repressed accent starts weaving its way into his yelling, but it's difficult to listen to a guy from Jersey and a Southerner have a screaming match and not burst out laughing. Now I see why they always make fun of mine and Mitch's accent – we all sound ridiculous.

"You believed him enough ta keep talkin'!"

"Listen here, I d-"

"Preston, finish your side of the story. I'll admit it looks kind of suspicious that it took you so long to call us," I interject just as Jerome opens his mouth to continue. I hold up both of my hands and he stutters out something before he huffs and sits back again.

"You believe me, right? Rob, please."

"I believe parts of your story, but I need to hear the end first." He looks hurt but he nods and rubs his eyes before he continues.

"It took me a little while for it to sink in, then I started trying to think of a way to tell you what happened. I didn't have Jerome's number written down anywhere, but I remembered that I still had last month's phone bill in the junk drawer so I went and dug it out and went to a payphone, then I called Kenny to cancel our recording and I called you so you'd know about the hacker and you could tell Jerome. If I woulda known what to do sooner, I'd've done it." He finishes and everyone just sits there, waiting for him to continue.

"What happened after that?" I ask while Mitch rolls his eyes, his hopes of going back to sleep crushed once again.

"I wrote down the list of stuff Jerome told me to get and I drove over to Walmart to get it."

"What the fuck happened at Walmart? Didn't you say you hit someone with your laptop and broke it?" Jerome asks, his voice laced with annoyance. Mitch perks up at this part of the story and Preston looks really weary, like he wants to get up and walk away for a long nap.

"Yeah. There was some freakin' weirdo who kept starin' at me like I was a piece of meat. He was behind me the whole time I was in the store so I booked it outta there as soon as I bought my stuff, but he followed me all the way out to the car." The more he speaks, the more disturbed he looks. I wish I could tell him he could stop, but I need to keep both of us on Jerome's good side. "He ran up behind me and grabbed my arm so I couldn't get away and he put a hun'erd dollar bill in my face like I'd go back to his car with him or somethin'. He tried to wrestle me over to his car so he could kill me and eat me or whatever the frick he wanted to do, and I smacked him in the head with my laptop so he'd let go. I tried to stab him with my car keys a couple a times so he'd leave me alone. I finally made it to my car and went back home to get my crap packed up before I set the alarm and left to find a hotel that was far enough away. Are ya happy now?" I nod gently and he lets out a big sigh, as if the weight of that story had been pressing down on his chest for the last hour.

"Is that all of it?" Jerome asks, still visibly annoyed.

"Yeah."

"Got anything to add, Mitch?"

"Hmmm?"

"Oh, fuck off. Go back to sleep, ya moron."

"Peace, boys." Mitch immediately takes his suggestion and shuts the lid of his laptop without even closing out his end of the Skype call.

"Got anything to say, Woof? Or are you just gonna space out and stare at us some more?"

"I have nothing else to say, for now. Give me a little while. I might be drugged up, but at least I listened to the whole story."

"Do you want a fuckin' medal or something?" Preston looks like he wants to dig into Jerome, but I cut him off before he can start another argument.

"No, but a little civility would be nice." Jerome sighs and rubs his eyes, nodding.

"Why are you drugged up?" Preston asks, his face pulled into a frown and his eyes full of worry.

"I just started some new pills and they turn me into a complete space case. I'm fine, Perston." He nods, too, but he doesn't seem convinced.

'This is why I hate having close friends – they always stick their noses into your business.' Jerome lowers his hands and tilts his chair back, putting his feet up on his desk to balance himself on the back two wheels.

"Well, gentlemen. Those are all the cards. How does your hand look?"


	19. Chapter 19

**June 26, 2012 at 5 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Well, gentlemen. Those are all the cards. How does your hand look?"

Jerome keeps looking back and forth between our faces on Skype and he's waiting for us to say something. But how do you answer that? Judging by how he was glaring at the screen when I was talking earlier, it looks like he's focused on Rob now. On a normal day I'd say they were being plebs and having a staring contest to see who'd blink first, but Rob looks like he's half asleep with his eyes barely open and his head leaning on his hand to keep himself upright. I know he told me not to worry about him but he never acts like this and it's freaking me out. And isn't that just a typical Rob thing to say? Whenever he says to stop worrying all it does is make me a million times more suspicious because he always tries to hide stuff when he doesn't feel good and I don't want him to hurt himself again. Why does he have to be so freakin' stubborn all the time?

But beyond him vaguely not feeling good, why is he taking new pills? Are they 'the company stopped making the old ones and my doctor gave me a different brand' new, or are they 'the other pills weren't enough so my doctor gave me a second kind of pill to take because I'm losing my ish' new? Either way, when did _that_ start? Maybe he's been on them for a while now? Is that why he seems so sad all the time? We don't always use our webcams when we Skype to record so I might've just been mistaking him being completely wiped out like this for him being upset or depressed or whatever. But if he's this tired and slow all the time, why doesn't he just ask for a different prescription? Or is it supposed to make him sleepy? Now that I think about it, he'd usually just be waking up at about this time to start recording, so maybe he's still doped up? At least he finally did something about his insomnia. What I think is funny – and I don't think he's noticed it yet – is that he sounds like he's drunk. He talks really slow and his words are all slurred together like he just chugged a whole six-pack by himself. It's so freakin' cu- No, we've been through this. Bad Preston. You can't think things like that. It's wrong.

"My hand looks pretty clean, Jerome. I don't know about you, but I don't like doing that kind of thing in public," Rob slurs with a trolly little smile. The Bac facepalms for a second before he looks back up at his screen with a smirk on his face. I can't read Jerome like Rob can so I can't tell if he liked the joke or if he's frustrated by Rob not actually answering the question. I hate dealing with Jerome outside of recordings because I never know what to say and I don't wanna die.

"We're playing poker here, Woof. Get your head outta the clouds and your hand outta your pants." Rob shrugs dramatically, putting both of his hands up in the air for us to see before he settles back down with his right hand balled up into a fist and pressed against his temple and his legs crossed. I still don't get how he sits like that all the time. It's frickin' uncomfortable as all sin and it's like he doesn't have a… Never mind.

"What do you want me to say, man? Do I really have to tell you if I am your friend or not?"

"What the fuck do you think? You know what they say about making assumptions: you make a Bacca assume you're a Man o' the Bac and he's wrong, it's gonna come back to screw you right in the ass for all eternity."

"You really like those ass jokes today, don't you? Are you jealous that Mitch is in my bed and not yours?" Okay, what the heck? What's going on here? Is Rob actually dating Mitch? Does Jerome like Mitch? Is everyone gay now but me? But why would Rob date Mitch? They don't seem right together. I can't picture them holding hands or making out or… Seriously Preston? Are you seriously gonna go there, especially when you have two of them sitting there watching you? Stop being such a filthy pleb and pay attention before you get nuked.

"Yeah, that's it. You got me. I'm _so_ envious that your apartment smells like a dozen rotting corpses and mine just smells like Frito farts. Woe is me." Rob and I both start laughing and Jerome somehow keeps a straight (is he straight?) face while he looks at a different screen.

"Honestly, I hope you two don't move in together. Between Mitch's putrid feet and your perpetual line of mystery cans, your neighbors would be calling in the forensics team to sweep your house twice a week." Mitch and the Bac are thinking about moving in together? So are _they_ dating and Rob's the one who's single? I think I'm missing something here.

"Who needs fresh air when you can get those little Christmas tree scent-y things three for a dollar at Wally World?" He starts typing out something on another screen and his face breaks into a real, human smile halfway through. "Good news, boys. Trinh finally got her ass back from class and she agreed to jump right in and help. Now we're gettin' somewhere!" He types for a little while longer before he turns back to us and moves his eyes between our faces. "I'm gonna be needing that answer pretty soon before we start handing out software. That shit ain't cheap."

"You know my answer," Rob mutters with a grim smile, his eyes locked unblinkingly on Jerome's face. Sometimes I'm really, really, _really_ glad he's on my side so I don't have to deal with both of them trying to trick me and worm their way into my brain. I'd be so dead.

"I _don't_ know your answer. That's the problem. I need you to stop being a deceitful son of a bitch and just show your colors for once. You're not fuckin' Switzerland."

"No, I would say I am more like Canada: I stay out of everyone else's business for as long as possible, but I don't run away from the conflict."

"And you're disgustingly sweet and you apologize when someone else steps on your foot. Yeah, you're the personification of Canada. So what's your answer?"

"Aw, thank you. Let's see… You definitely have the model of consumption down to a T, and I like how you replicated capitalism with lies. That was very creative and corrupt."

"And you're cold as all shit. Tell me your answer."

"Do you think this is cold, Jerome? This is springtime." He chuckles lightly and Jerome rolls his eyes dramatically. To anyone else, it might just sound like Rob's picking on the Bacca to make him lose his temper again. To me, though… Hearing him say that sends a shiver down my spine. Rob doesn't get angry like the other guys. He doesn't turn red and start screaming or cussing or waving his hands around like a maniac. When Rob gets angry, he just smiles and starts baiting you into one of his traps so you'll impale yourself and everyone else can see how stupid you are while you plead and bleed to death. I don't get how these two can even be friends because all they do is play mind games with each other. They aren't even talking to me and my head hurts.

"God dammit, Rob! What's your answer?"

"What do you think my answer is?"

"It doesn't matter what I think! You-"

"No, it matters very much what you think. Do you really think so little of me? Do you think I would just up and leave as soon as the first cloud drifted across the sky? Yeah, I'm cold, but I'm not heartless."

"I'm losing my patience here, Woof. I need to know I can count on you when the guns come out."

"I need to know that _I_ can count on _you_."

"That's bullshit! You've always been able to count on me."

"Yeah, when it serves your purposes and you don't have to go too far out of your way. This was never about 'counting on' anyone; that just means you can control them. This is all about trust – laissez-faire, debt-free trust. You don't trust me, plain and simple."

"I wonder why the fuck that is! No one wants to trust the fucking Sphinx!"

"Now I'm really interested. Why don't you trust me, Jerome? Think about it logically for a second. What would I have to lose by joining you? More importantly, what would I have to gain by betraying you? It would make no logical or moral sense for me to leave you."

"What do you want?"

"I don't want anything but your trust. You know I have nothing to offer you, not like Mitch does, but I have the solution to your hacker problem. I need you to trust me for it to work." This's getting too deep for me and I know he's intentionally leaving out information so I won't know what's going on. Rob doesn't trust me, but I don't blame him – not after how bad I screwed up today. "You will always have me in checkmate, so why are you afraid of me? All I want to do is help you end this stalemate mess of a game so we can all move on with our lives. Do you trust me?" Jerome looks beyond angry now, like he wants to punch something. I guess this isn't the first time they've been through this argument. Rob's still sitting there, barely holding his head up with that empty look in his eyes like none of this even bothers him. Most days I'd be mad that they're ignoring me but today… I'm just glad I'm not in the middle of all this.

"I'm done with your shit. You have thirty seconds to give me an answer before I remote you and wipe your drives."

"Would you really do that to me?"

"Try me."

"That doesn't sound like you, Jerome."

"Get your fucking hearing checked." There's a short pause while they continue staring each other down, and Rob still has a trace of amusement on his face.

"You know that I'm not going to answer you, right? I shouldn't have to answer you."

"Don't make me do this, Rob."

"Press the button. Do it."

"No! You can't let him do this to you!" Jerome ignores me like I'm not even there and the corner of Rob's mouth turns up in a small smile.

"Stay out of this, Preston. This doesn't concern you," Rob counters, his eyes meeting mine for only a second before he focuses back on Jerome. He wouldn't actually let him kill his Mac, would he? Why's he doing this? If the Bacca pulls the plug on him, I'll make him pay. I don't know how I'm gonna do it but I'll find a way to make it happen.

"You're running out of time, Woof. Make a decision."

"I already told you my decision. Now we are all waiting on you."

"You're pointing the gun at your own head."

"I'm more of a knife kind of guy, but whatever floats your canoe, I guess."

"I mean it, Rob. This's your last chance." Jerome turns to his other monitor and starts clicking furiously before he turns back to face his webcam, his black eyes as unreadable as ever. "Tell me whose side you're on." I can see his finger hovering over the Enter button, ready to destroy Rob's precious laptop. He doesn't hesitate to answer.

"Mine." Jerome presses the button and my hand moves in front of my mouth in horror. I don't know which one of them's crazier and I don't know which one I'm more pissed off at. How could he sit there and let Jerome do that to him? I wait for Rob's video feed to disappear, but they just keep staring at each other like nothing even happened. Eventually Jerome blinks and looks away from the screen, the red flush slowly fading from his face. Rob called his bluff when I didn't know what to do, and he played Jerome like a fiddle right to the very end. Did someone finally beat the Bacca?

"Fucking suicidal bastard," Jerome mutters as he leans back in his chair and covers his face with his hands. He can't do it? Rob moves for the first time in the last five minutes, grabbing his coffee mug and peering into it in disappointment before he puts it back, like he forgot that he already drank it all. Even I knew it was gone, and I'm in Texas. Is he seriously that spaced out?

"Are you happy now? Did you get the answer you wanted?"

"Fuck you."

"You knew I wasn't going anywhere. Why don't you lower your stress level and just let me be your friend?" Jerome lets out a long breath through his nose and lets his arms drop back down on the armrests of his chair, then he just stares blankly at the screen. Is he trying to pull himself back together, or is he just completely losing it now?

"Look, I don't know about you but I'm goin' down with this ship. This is my _Titanic_ and I'm finally the captain of something that matters. You can jump overboard if you want – just don't come limping back to me when the sharks bite your legs off," he mumbles as he looks at Rob and me on the screen. He looks so tired and unhappy that I feel sorry for him, even though this's the Bacca we're talking about. "I wouldn't blame you if you left. Shitty ass friends like us… You could do so much better than people like us, both of you."

"Like who, exactly?" Rob asks with his eyebrows raised, the rest of his face staying exactly the same. "Do you mean someone like Seto, or someone like Dawn? You seriously don't give yourself enough credit, man. Without friends like you, Mitch, Mat, and Preston, I wouldn't be here right now. I wouldn't be _anywhere_ right now." So Jerome and Mitch know about Rob's depression, too? Or is he being overdramatic? How can I call myself his best friend when I don't know any of this stuff or even who else knows it? How much do I still not know about him?

"Don't say shit like that. You're the one who always makes us keep our heads on straight and keeps 'em from going up our asses when we aren't looking, just like tonight. We finally got you a job and you're gonna do it, dammit. You don't get to say shit like that."

"We always get the dirty jobs, don't we?"

"Who else's gonna do 'em? Bitchy Mitch?" Rob cracks a faint smile and they both turn their attention to me now. I don't wanna do this. "Like they always say, Lava P – you're either with us or against us. There's no middle here. Pick a side or get the fuck out."

Let's be real here: I have no freakin' idea what I'm getting myself into and the only surefire way to make sure I don't get nuked is to play follow-the-leader with Rob. I trust his judgment more than mine even when he's high like a G6. I don't like the whole Team Crafted situation and, call me naïve or stupid or whatever you want, but I think Mitch overstepped and took it too far. It wasn't his place to play God and decide who got to stay and who had to go, and I really don't trust anything the Bacca says or does. But if you look at what the other side's doing and what they tried to do to me and Mitch, that's even worse and I trust _them_ even less. Even though it goes against my better judgment, I guess I'm siding with Mitch. I don't really have a choice, do I?

"I'm with you guys. Why would you think I'd choose to help people I've never met, especially after they tried to destroy all my stuff?" Rob's face softens a little bit and Jerome bobs his head a couple times and starts clicking things on another screen. I wonder if he'd been ready to smack me down if I said 'no'. The Bacca's terrifying as all frick.

"Fan-tastic. I think that's a wrap, boys. Now we get to take it easy until Trinh finishes her upgrades and Woof and I can work out a plan. I'mma go sleep for an hour or two, so unmute all for me if something good happens, 'kay Zeus?"

"I gotchu, J," the deep, disembodied voice answers and it makes me jump again. It's gonna take a while to get used to having people watching me from behind the scenes. I feel like I'm in a movie or something. I wonder what he thinks about all of us right now with all this drama?

"Get some work done while I'm out so we don't hafta try to record Sky Wars while we duck and cover. Catch you two on the flip side."

"Get some sleep," Rob says with a small smile, immediately grabbing his coffee mug and heading out of the room.

" 'Night." Jerome waves and clicks something on his screen and stands up, walking stiffly behind him to a blow-up mattress on the floor before he flops down on it in a graceful arc and just lays there facedown like a beached whale. The Bac is definitely the most interesting person I've ever met. Rob returns with a mouthful of coffee so big that his cheeks are puffed out like a squirrel and I can't help but laugh. He waves his hands in front of his face really fast and he tries not to laugh, then starts gasping and wiping tears from his eyes when he finally swallows it all.

"What the frick was that supposed to be?"

"It was _hot_. Damn that hurts." He gets it together with a derpy grin and connects his wireless headset, digging around behind his computer for the extra monitor he always takes everywhere with his Mac. "That's one way to wake up. Are you ready to churn out some Goodness?"

"Always."

* * *

 **June 27, 2012 at 1 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I can hear Rob clicking and typing something in the background window while I work on the thumbnail for the next-to-last video of the day. I wish I'd thought far enough ahead to pick up a cheap monitor so I'd have a decent setup like him because this takes forever to do anything and it sucks. Now I have to keep switching back and forth between the windows and I know some guy named Paul and a girl named Trinh and maybe Zeus and who knows how many other people are watching me check up on Rob every five minutes. I can feel them all judging me even though I've never met any of them. At least Jerome's still passed out on his face – I can't imagine how many jokes he'd make about me staring at Rob.

I won't lie: I'm worried about him and whatever he's taking these new pills for. He put on a pretty convincing act while we were recording and he'd snapped out of his drugginess by the time we started editing a couple hours ago, but just because he looks like he's back to normal doesn't mean he actually is. He's too good at pretending over the computer. We're just sitting together in silence while we concentrate on our videos and it's kinda creeping me out. I mean, we have a lot of silence during our recordings and meet-ups and calls and stuff, but it's always a nice, comfortable silence that doesn't make you itch. This silence feels like ants are crawling up and down my body and I don't know why it's so freakin' uncomfortable. It's prickly like a cactus.

"Hey, Preston?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

" 'Course I'm okay. Why?"

"You seemed pretty shaken up when you first called. Do you want to talk about it?" Leave it to Rob to always wanna talk about every little detail about everything in my life but shut everyone out about his own life. I start shaking my head but I don't know if he saw me. He gets in the Auto Zone when he edits.

"Naw dawg, I'm good. I think I talked about it enough."

"Are you sure?"

"Senpai, plz. I good." He sighs but I can hear the smile in his sigh. I know this guy too well. "What about you? You feelin' better?"

"I'm getting there. Life is good, but I still feel kind of drowsy. It will pass eventually." The call falls silent again and I can hear him typing something at supersonic speed. Probably just a video description. I'm focused on cropping a picture of someone's Creeper fan art to add to the thumbnail when I hear a huge, loud _bang_ on Rob's end of the Skype call. I almost jump off my bed and I immediately switch over to his video feed to see him on his feet, staring down the dark hallway next to his desk with the left side of his headset pulled back behind his ear. He's still a guy and I'm sure he can take care of himself… But he's Rob. I can tackle him down on the floor and pin him on his stomach in like twenty seconds flat. He isn't the strongest guy in the world and, even though this sounds kinda harsh, he isn't eighteen years old anymore, either. It'd be so easy for someone to hurt him or kill him.

"Rob? What's goin' on?" He holds his finger up towards the computer and keeps staring down the hall. He waits for a couple more seconds before he backs up, never turning away from the doorway. The only light in the room is coming from the computer screen and it feels like I'm watching the worst scary movie ever. I see him look around the room for a second and he backs away over to his big computer and grabs his microphone stand and tears it apart. He takes the middle support beam out and starts walking back to where his Mac is, clutching the metal pole at his side. Even though I'm on edge watching him, I can't help but wonder how long it would've taken me to come up with that. Or would I've just yolo'd it and gone hunting with my bare hands? That's a scary thought. I glance over at the hunting knife on the table before I look back at the screen.

"Back in a sec," he whispers as he moves the headset microphone away from his mouth and holds the shiny silver pole up by his head like a baseball bat. I watch him walk slowly out of the frame and I just wanna yell at him to come back and stand in front of the camera like everyone always does to the people in Sci-Fi movies where you know everyone but the last guy and girl are gonna die bloody, gruesome deaths. "Hey, Mitch? What are you doing, man?" he yells and I can hear a loud thumping noise that just keeps getting bigger and louder the further away from the computer he gets. "Hey, Mitch!"

"What dood?" I hear a door creak open and I see the hallway get a little bit brighter as a light goes on somewhere.

"What are you… God damn it, Mitch. What did you _do_?"

"I was trying to find something to wear that wasn't huge."

"Why didn't you just _ask_?" I hear them walking on the hard wood floor and Rob lets out an annoyed sigh when they stop. "Was all of this really necessary?"

"Fine, dood. I was looking for clean clothes _and_ your stash. I had a bet with Jerome."

"My stash of what?"

"Dildos. What else could you be stashing in this foodless wasteland of yours? I feel like a fucking hyena in 'The Lion King.' " I fail to stifle my laugh and Rob huffs in frustration.

"Bro, you were checking the wrong place. Find some clothes and kindly get the hell out of my room. Go wash your feet or something." He doesn't deny he has some? Wow. Or is he joking? Okay, no. This isn't something to be thinking about right now.

"Yes, Mom."

"When you get done, throw everything in the basket by the laundry room. I don't trust you with my apartment anymore."

"Yes, Mom."

"I mean it, Mitch. Don't touch the washer or anything else."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't play with Robbie's special toys. I got it dood." I hear Rob give an exasperated laugh and he walks back to the computer room with an irritated look on his face and props the microphone pole up against the wall by the door.

"What the frick happened? Did the ceiling cave in?" I ask and he shakes his head wordlessly while he grabs the laptop and carries it all the way back to his room with him. I've never seen his apartment besides his recording room and part of his living room, but it's scary neat and it looks kinda empty, like there's nothing on the walls and only stuff that people use all the time in the rooms and on the counters. No wonder Mitch got annoyed when he had to stay with him: Rob's so clean and simple and Mitch's a mess and he always has plenty of everything around at all times, just like I do.

"Mitch happened. What else is there to say?" he replies as he carefully turns the computer so I can see his room. His bed is covered in piles of unfolded clothes and one of the sliding closet doors is laying down on the floor with one of the wheels that used to be holding it in place all the way over in the corner. The way he threw things everywhere looks really suspicious. Was he actually looking for stuff to embarrass Rob with, or was he looking for something else and got caught before he found it? This's making me trust Mitch even less.

"Why? Just why?" I ask with a laugh and he rolls his eyes. It's not even my stuff and it's making me mad. A little bit of teasing's fine but this's taking it too far. He really ticks me off when Rob helps him out and gives him a place to stay and he just comes in here and complains and moans and messes everything up for him. What kind of friend _does_ that?

"Dealing with Mitchell is like licking a Tootsie Pop: the world may never know." Rob flops down on the bed and sets the computer facing the door, then he starts folding his clothes back up, sorting everything into piles and setting stuff aside for Mitch to wear. It's surprising how many clothes he has – he only ever wears the same stuff over and over again. On the other hand, I see him examine the blood-spotted sleeves on a couple of shirts before he throws them down to the floor, and that seems like a pretty good reason not to wear them. He doesn't get very far in the couple of minutes before Mitch reappears with wet hair in just a big, fluffy black towel and starts going through a newly refolded pile of shirts and pulling everything apart again. "Can I _help_ you, monsieur?"

"I forgot to grab clothes when I left."

"Obviously," Rob retorts, smacking his hand away from the leaning tower of shirts and fixing it before handing him the stack of usable clothes. Mitch smirks and readjusts the black towel around his waist, taking his time sorting through the typical black, blue, and white clothes. I can't help but stare at his shamelessness, but Rob just ignores him and goes back to folding his messed up clothes. Isn't having an almost naked guy standing in front of him like me having an almost naked girl in front of me? I thought he'd be staring at him like he was dinner.

"Do you like what you see, Purrston?" Mitch snickers as he turns around and starts shuffling through his suitcase with his barely-covered butt up in the air.

"It's kinda hard to see anything _else_ , so… Yeah, I like being able to see." Rob chuckles and tosses a pair of pajama pants with N64 controllers printed on them at the back of Mitch's head.

"There, Your Highness. Now get your hiney out of here before Perston's eyes fall out of his head." Mitch makes an awkward kissy face at the computer before he grabs his own laptop and walks backwards out of the room to where the bathroom was. I pretend to go back to editing my video while I watch Rob work, surprised at the number of shirts he's tossed on the ground to throw away. I guess he doesn't go through his stuff very often. About a minute later, I see Mitch sneak out of the bathroom with clothes on this time. He glances into the bedroom to see what Rob's doing before he hurries out to the living room. I see his Skype icon light up and a few seconds later, I get a PM from him in a private chat:

 _Donald: is he still busy?_

 _Me: Yeah, whyd you do that?_

 _Donald: it isn't what it looks like_

 _Me: Then what is it?_

 _Donald: how much do you know about rob's past?_

Okay, what kind of question is that? How am I supposed to respond to something so vague and weird and possibly harmful? I don't know what him and the Bacca know about Rob, but I'm not gonna be the one to tell them all his secrets if there's stuff he told me that they don't know. I'd never betray him like that.

 _Me: Some. What are you talking about?_

 _Donald: do you know why he takes meds?_

 _Me: Sorta but not really._

 _Donald: its not my place to say this but he has issues every once in a while and i think hes going through it again_

 _Donald: i cant be awake all the time to watch him so can you keep an eye on him when im asleep? i don't trust him by himself for long periods of time and he isnt sleeping_

Wait, so Mitch knows about all that, too? Did Rob tell him already or did he just figure it out? Either way, there's no way I'm gonna let him lose it and hurt himself again, even if it means I hafta stay awake with him until this whole hacker thing's over, however long that's gonna be.

 _Me: What am I watching for?_

 _Donald: anything weird. when he stops staring into space sometimes and starts working nonstop hes in trouble_

 _Donald: and this_

He stops typing and I wait for something to happen. Mitch starts a separate video call without audio and pulls a little black bundle out of the front of his t-shirt. He's glancing conspiratorially over the top of his computer while he carefully opens the bundle and spreads it out across the dark wood table. I'm not prepared to see it. It's full of like ten sharp, shiny, silver scalpels perfectly lined up in a straight line from smallest to largest with different kinds of edges. Just seeing all the different shapes and sizes of knives puts the depth of Rob's problem in perspective. It makes me sick to my stomach to think that he used those on his own body. How long did it take him to make his arms look like that? Did he cut anywhere else? Does he still cut where other people can't see it so they won't know? Was he lying to me when he said he'd stopped? Looking at all of those and how polished they are, I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

 _Donald: im keeping an eye on these and taking them with me when i leave, ive been trying to find them for months, he hid them inside of a hole underneath his dresser_

 _Donald: dont worry about me, just worry about him. he wouldnt hurt anyone else_

 _Me: Got it._

"Hey, Mitch? What were you doing in the closet?" Rob yells in the other Skype call and he makes me jump on my squeaky hotel bed. He laughs at me and grabs the last pile of clothes, staring up at the doorway while he waits for Mitch's answer.

"The same thing you always do, Robert."

"When I do it, the doors don't come off."

"That means you aren't doing it right."

* * *

 **June 27, 2012 at 6 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

 _Me: How big does the file have to be?_

 _Noseferatu: For them not to question it? Probably at least 300 MB._

 _TTTPower: 500 MB to be safe._

 _Me: I have enough to do that. You're sure he won't get hurt? He's a good guy._

I glance up at Procy's monitor and Preston is still listening to our parkour group recording, his face scrunched in a frown as he edits out all of our pre-game prep work. It doesn't look like he suspects anything. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, at least if you look at the big picture; if he knew what we were about to do, he would only get in our way. This is all for his benefit, anyway. I should be more worried about me and less worried about him.

 _TTTPower: I changed his info and Nosey can Pshop his face real quick._

 _Noseferatu: Ain't nuttin ta worry bout Baby Cakes._

 _TTTPower: Boot her up so I can remote install and spiff it all up. Has to be believable or it won't work. ;)_

 _Noseferatu: Are you sure you wanna go through with this? We could come up with something else._

 _Me: It needed to be done someday. Why not kill four birds with one arrow?_

 _Noseferatu: Who do you think you are? Katniss?_

 _Me: ;)_

 _Noseferatu: OLO_

 _TTTPower: XD_

 _TTTPower: Is that a nose or a typo?_

I smile and reach up to the top shelf of my desk and grab my old laptop from college, leaning over to the side to untangle the power cord where Procyon's camera wouldn't be able to see; I don't want Preston to have any idea about what is going on. Maybe being a packrat is a good thing – if I had thrown Sirius away when I bought Procy, I would have had to sacrifice one of my 'good' computers for this plan to work. I push off from the wall and roll my chair over to the surge protector to plug in the charging cord, then I fly back and connect it to my outdated Dell with a gratifying click. I run my fingers over its slightly scratched, glossy black surface and wipe the dust away, giving it a minute or two to begin charging. I spent so many hours with this computer writing term papers, instant messaging my friends, playing bad indie games, recording my first videos… I think if it was sentient, Sirius would be satisfied with its last few days of life.

'This is the end, old friend.'


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:** **I don't own the rights to the song mentioned in this chapter, so please don't sue me. I have nothing you want, Jerome.**

* * *

 **June 27, 2012 at 10 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"I still can't believe your mom calls you every day, dude. That's one of the best things about moving out!" I say and Rob rolls his eyes with a dopey smile and turns his head to look down the hallway for the tenth time in the last minute. "Does she miss her wittle Robbie Dobbie Flobbie?"

"Bro, my parents are amazing. You sound so jelly right now."

"No one's as jelly as the Benj," Jerome snickers while he reads something, his beady little eyes flitting between two of his monitors while his hands shake up a super-sized bag of chips he found in his kitchen.

"No kidding, man. At this rate, he's going to be eating the jar of strawberry jelly with a spoon by the time he goes back to sleep." Rob turns and looks down the hallway again, moving his head back and forth to try to see something. "Hey, Mitch? What are you doing?" He yells something back but I can't hear what he said. "Well, you shouldn't have chugged all of the milk yesterday. How do you think I feel, bro? You ate all of my food!"

"Tell him to eat ramen like the rest of us. Who the fuck does he think he is?" the Bacca mutters as he munches on another handful of Nacho Cheese Dorito dust like a pleb. What I wouldn't give to have a big bag of those right now… My mouth's watering just thinking about the popcorn bowl of stale chips tipped over in the sink back at my apartment. And my pizza… Oh, crap. I didn't throw that piece of pizza away, did I? I guess I'll have a new pet when I go back home.

"Hey, Mitch! Jerome says to hit up the Cup o' Noodles! The wonton ones are pretty good with chili powder!"

"What the frick do you even call that? Is that what they feed you up in Canadia?" Rob chuckles at me as he edits something on his big computer, his mouse clicking like a hundred miles an hour as he works on Jerome's videos for the next couple days. He already finished all of his and he demanded that the Bac hand his stuff over for him to take care of while Jerome did more important things. How can he still have so much energy left after staying awake this long? I mean, I've pulled all-nighters before but no one's this freakin' peppy and happy and productive after not sleeping for a day. Maybe you get used to it if you never sleep?

"What can I say? It's hot and spicy."

"Sounds more like 'nope 'n nasty' to me. Isn't there anything better for you to nom on?"

"Well, it depends on what you think is edible. One of the things I like that no one else will touch is my famous dessert ramen."

"And here he goes again. If you don't want nightmares, Lava P, you should turn your sound off until he stops ranting," the Bacca teases while he makes a disgusted face with his nose all scrunched up. That's terrifying.

"I'm just trying to keep Mitch from charging up your credit card, man. If you want to feed the beast, tell him so he can run out and buy his precious homo milk." I try to hold back the laughter but it just won't listen to me. He gives me his senpai look and I shrug. "Are you five years old? What do you call it, then?"

"We just call it 'milk,' Woof. Is that what your master plan was all this time? Trap Benj at your place and force-feed him homo milk? You're fucking sick."

"It works every time," Rob answers with a grin as he looks towards the kitchen again before he goes back to editing. If it was me, I don't think I'd be able to joke around about it this much. How long did it take for him to be okay with being gay? It just seems like something people wouldn't wanna be teased about, ya know? I guess I don't understand that part of him. "It tastes just like rice pudding. All you have to do is take a pack of unseasoned ramen or a cup of rice, boil it until it's soft, then add h… _milk_ , cinnamon, and sugar."

"Is that how you describe your sex life? Soft ramen, sugar, and homo milk? Remind me to never pass out at your place again. Fall asleep and wake up with a mouthful of fake jizz," Jerome jokes as he holds the bag up to his face to get another mouthful of broken chips. He looks like a baby bird eating a worm out of its mom's mouth and I can't help but wonder if he's getting little chips up his nose. He's probably used to it, though.

"Don't roast it until you try it. Last time I checked, the only lady _you_ had was Miss Betty."

"At least I don't hafta shove expired ramen concoctions down Bet's throat to make her like me. Now _that's_ what I call true love." There's a loud crash and Rob facepalms before he dramatically pushes himself off from the wall and zooms backwards to get a better look down the hallway.

"Hey, Mitch? What was that noise?" Mitch shouts something to him and Rob's head flops back on his chair before he pulls himself along the wall like a slug to come back to his big desk. "If I ever offer to let him stay with me again, both of you have to slap me across the face so I wake the hell up."

"Sounds like fun. I like slapping your face – it's prickly like a cactus." Rob snorts and goes back to editing but Jerome turns and stares at me with his weird, unreadable eyes and I wish I hadn't said anything. Not a good idea, Preston. Now he's gonna tease you some more.

"You been slappin' that booty, P? I heard it's even prickly-er," he whispers before he makes an earsplitting slurp and goes back to typing with that freaking smirk on his face. We just sit for a few seconds in silence while they work and I chill out and try not to fall asleep, and I jump when Rob slams his head down on the desk and just stays there. He hit his head _hard_ , and he isn't moving. Is this the kind of weird thing Mitch was telling me to watch for? Is he okay?! What do I do?!

"Hey, Mitch!"

"Rob, if you say 'hey, Mitch' one more time, I swear I'll dump all of your ramen in the washer and make you dinner for a year," Mitch says as he walks in and puts his stuff down next to his laptop on the smaller desk. He pulls out his folding chair and plops down before he holds his bowl of food up to the camera for everyone to see. "Look what this guy is feeding me, biggums. This is torture." It looks like Cheerios in a shiny sea of dark brown sludge and it probably would've made me gag if I wasn't so frickin' hungry right now. Mitch's making a pouty face and the Bacca looks like he might actually feel sorry for him.

"What the fuck is _that_?" Jerome leans forward to peer at the screen and Rob just facepalms again and starts laughing like a lunatic. "Rob, is that mud? Or is it red? I can't tell."

"Please tell me that isn't what I think it is!" he chokes as he turns around to look at Mitch's pitiful face.

"What choice did I have? Everything else looks like shit or had already expired. How can you live like this, Robert?"

"Okay, what the heck _is_ it? It looks like dog poop with worms in it." Mitch just looks at me, but Rob keeps laughing and Jerome stifles his laughter with a big snort. Well, that's what it looks like! It's not my fault he asked my opinion before he ate it.

"He… He took cereal and…!" Rob's so hysterical now he can't talk and even Mitch's cracking a smile. He stirs it around a little bit more but he looks like he regrets making it, whatever it is.

"I poured a bowl of cereal, then I made two packs of hot chocolate with water so I could pretend it had milk. It turns out that cold water doesn't dissolve the powder, so the cereal dissolved instead."

"It looks like sewer sludge, dude. Like seriously. Have you ever had to pump water outta your basement after a really bad flood? That's what the stuff you hafta shovel out looks like." Mitch's starting to look sick and everyone else's getting a kick out of his pain. I'm not lying: I just shouldn't be saying this stuff when he's getting ready to eat his sludge porridge.

"Too bad it doesn't have marshmallows, Benj. Then you could pretend it was leprechaun shit and say you 'got lucky,' " Jerome chuckles while Rob rubs his red eyes and Mitch tries to talk himself into taking a bite of his paste-y, chocolate poop soup. After a few seconds of playing with his so-called food and making sad eyes at the camera, Mitch pushes the bowl away and crosses his arms. He has a mini-staredown with Jerome before the Bacca sighs and nods. "Fine, but don't go crazy. Fifty bucks, Mitch. I mean it!" By that point, Mitch's already off his chair and walking out of the room.

"I'm just going to the place right down the street. Back in an hour, Mom," he says when he comes back a minute later to grab Rob's cell phone, wearing a pair of sunglasses and black shorts and one of Rob's blue sweaters. Something about him wearing Rob's clothes just really ticks me off for some reason and I don't know why. It gets my blood pressure up and I wanna rip his stuff right off Mitch's boney butt. He doesn't seem like the bad friend I thought he was, but I don't like the way he treats Rob even though he's fine with it for some reason. Why in the world would he wanna date Mitch in the first place? That's just pure bullshrimp right there. He turns and tries to walk out of the room but he isn't fast enough.

"Hey, Mitch?"

"What?" he sighs as he peeks back into the recording room.

"Are you going to eat that?"

"I'm not _that_ fucking hungry."

"Fine, picky ass. Give it here." Mitch grabs the mixing bowl of pudding-like cereal sludge and shoves it into Rob's outstretched hand. Rob just looks at it as Mitch runs out of the room and down the hall to the front door. I hear the security system beep as he types in the code and the door slams firmly behind him. Rob carefully mixes it around and tastes a spoonful of it while the Bac and me just watch in horror. It looks like crap-flavored frosting. "Hmmm. Not bad. I wouldn't make it again, but it isn't as bad as it looks." He eats another bite of it and looks innocently up at the camera while he licks a chunk of it off the side of his mouth.

"That's just nasty, Woof. We didn't need to see you act out your fetishes on camera like that," Jerome snickers while Rob takes another big bite of the dark brown paste, licking the spoon with a sexy face while he moans. This's the stuff nightmares are made of.

"No. Just no. You win!" I say as I block out the screen with my hands. Rob smirks and goes back to eating Mitch's science experiment normally, examining it for extra ingredients.

"You know he made this just so you would feel sorry for him and buy him food, right?"

"Yeah. But you hafta admit, that _was_ pretty pathetic. I shoulda made him eat the shit first."

"Is that what you usually do, Jerome?"

"Shuddup."

* * *

 **June 27, 2012 at 9 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

Mitch is crunching intently on something at his desk behind me while he slowly edits his videos, having finally run out of reasons to procrastinate. It seems absurd, playing mini games and cracking jokes when the rest of the internet has turned against Mitch, and thus against all of us. It feels like we are living in the wrong time, that the world ended and we still haven't managed to convince ourselves that it is over. Win or lose, we refuse to bow down and let them humiliate us. We all agreed that the only way to handle this war is to show the other side that we don't need them to be successful, that the fans will still enjoy our content without them in it. They want to hurt our reputations and ruin our channels, and the best way to counter that is to continue business as usual, churning out videos so the fans never realize what happened or how bad the situation got. The only way for us to win is to just be us, no matter what happens.

I hear Preston jerk violently in his sleep again and I glance over at him on my Skype monitor while I listen to Jerome's commentary from his and Mitch's round of Party Games. Whether he wants to admit it or not, his adventure at Walmart yesterday really messed with his head. He has been making sounds and faces in his sleep, and Mitch muted his end of the Skype call because he couldn't stand listening to him anymore. That might be why it took so much arguing for us to get him to sleep; Mitch had to spend twenty minutes persuading him to rest for a while, and he passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. I know he is just trying to help, but he is more helpful asleep than he is awake, cranky, and exhausted. Of the four of us, Preston seems the most stressed out even though he is the one in the least amount of danger.

'If only he knew.'

'If he knew, he would never sleep.'

'The last thing we need is for Zeus to have to call for an ambulance because Preston has passed out from sleep deprivation.'

'What a mess.' I sigh and put my arms up in the air to stretch, watching the huge, electric blue bar slowly fill up on Sirius's screen with the Triniti Power 2.0 logo printed underneath it in blocky script. The bigger laptop is perched in the spot where my desktop's keyboard used to be so I can keep an eye on it while Preston thinks I am working on my main computer. I even turned Mitch's desk to the side so his webcam couldn't show my new setup. I can't let Preston get suspicious. Trinh is slowly rearranging and editing the files on Sirius's hard drive, changing the time stamps and names of files and putting a basic level of encryption on everything saved to the computer. We hope that, if it makes it seem like I have pulled out all the stops to hide the files, it will make a risky download more enticing.

I watch the desktop picture change as she sets up her custom software, setting the trap while I review my part in the play inside my head. I look over at Preston again, hoping that he will be asleep when my scene comes. He will only be a distraction. It is only a matter of time now: Mat logged back onto his computer this afternoon and no one has seen him since, even Paul's tracking program. Life doesn't look good for him right now. It seems like LeetFire is slowly making his way through all of Mitch's contacts, hoping to find a weak spot to use to get at Jerome. With any luck, I will be the next one on his list so no one else has to get hurt and we won't have to take any unnecessary risks. I open up a chat window and start typing:

 _Me: Do you need me to do anything? I feel so useless._

 _TTTPower: Nope! Everything looks great and Nosey finished the pics before he passed out._

 _Me: I'm going to go record the video now. I should be back in about twenty minutes if you need me._

 _TTTPower: kk gl hf_

 _Me: Of course. :D_

I turn off my microphone and grab my vlog camera and tripod from the top drawer before I roll back from the desk, startling Mitch. He watches me leave with that wary expression he reserves just for me; even after two years, he still doesn't trust me by myself. I open the battery compartment and slide the dead AAs out, turning on the light in the kitchen so I can pop them back into the charger and grab two newly charged ones. I turn the camera on and screw it onto the tripod, watching the little preview screen while I try to adjust the lighting in the living room. This is difficult with just two regular table lamps and the kitchen light.

'If only Preston had slept during the day…' Eventually it looks acceptable and I sit down on the couch to fiddle with the zoom and brightness settings for the recording. Hopefully I can do this in one take: it would look bad on my part to have to edit anything out, and the viewers will know if I have to redo it – it will sound rehearsed and fake. I hit the record button and sit back against the pillows. I look up at my face on the tiny screen, trying to keep my nerves in check long enough to finish what I started.

'I have to do this. This is the best thing for all of us.' I put on a smile and start talking.

"Hey, what's going on guys? It's Woofless here and _welcome_ to another vlog except… this one isn't anywhere cool or exciting! Yeah! Anyway, we are going to be doing something a little different today, and I hope everyone will stick around long enough to hear the whole story."

* * *

 **June 27, 2012 at 11 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I jolt up off the stupid, squeaky bed and it feels like I get some hang time before I flop back down. At first I thought it was because Creepy McCreeperson had finally caught up to me with his greasy yellow-grey ponytail, but that was just a really awful dream. I cover my face with my hands and it takes me a couple seconds to realize that my computer woke me up. It sounds like a tornado siren and a fire alarm all mashed together and I hate it so freakin' much. I turn on the lamp and click the unmute button and everyone looks confused except Jerome. He just looks kinda sad and annoyed.

"Well, it's official: they nuked Nooch. We're in some shit, boys," he announces as he pops open his millionth Monster today. It's like his frickin' gasoline or something. If he gets me out of this alive, I'm gonna buy him a giant case of it for Christmas or The Great Axe Festival or whatever Baccas celebrate.

"Why'd they do that?" I sound like I'm drunk and I feel like I have syrup instead of blood. I guess I'm spending too much time with Canadians. "What'd Nooch do to 'em?"

"They wanna get to me. That's why they went after you, too," Jerome says as he scans through the information on his e-mail screen. I wonder how he knows all this if Nooch's computer's dead and they haven't been able to watch him. Is he always watching everyone? He's like freaking Santa Claus! "If they shut _me_ down, this little game's all over. Just give me my second in the spotlight here – this's the only time I'm ever gonna be any kind of fucking king."

"Did they get anything important?" Rob asks as serious and normal as can be, just like he was six hours ago when I went to sleep. Is this guy actually human? It's been like two days now and the closest thing he's gotten to sleeping is leaving to change his clothes. And he only had two cups of coffee all that time! What kind of miracle pills is he _on_?

"Dunno. Paul's checking it out but it doesn't look good. Whatever the fuck happened to Noochy, it's gonna be expensive as shit to fix."

"This is Mat we're talking about. Maybe he had enough sense to shut everything down before they got him," Mitch slurs from Rob's bed as he runs his hand through his messy hair. It looks like he was asleep, too. So who was watching Rob?! What the frick was he thinking?! I'm so many different kinds of pissed right now. Does he think about anything but food and sleeping?!

"I don't know, Mitch. Knowing Nooch, he might have done something crazy to play around with him. Mat has always been the wild card," Rob adds as he leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. I look at myself on the monitor and it's pretty sad that Rob's the only one who looks sane. Mitch and me both look drunk off our butts and Jerome looks like his head's gonna pop off. Maybe Rob should start handing out some of his chill pills.

"What happened?" I ask as I yawn and pull myself up on the headboard so I can plug my wireless headset back in before I wake up anyone in the rooms next to me. It'd be just my luck to get kicked out of here for having a Bacca screaming at me at midnight when everyone else's trying to sleep.

"The records say he booted up at 1:37 PM Eastern and he rendered and uploaded one video, then he went and trolled on Reddit and Twitter for a while. He went AFK at 3:22 PM until we lost connection with him at 8:04 PM. Paul thought his computer might've autoed down, but it seems like a weird amount of time for a standby mode. Plus, there was no shut-down or reboot sequence and they couldn't find any power or service outage reports for his area. Unless he pulled the plug in a random rage fit, I don't think there's another way to explain it besides Leety's cut-off program."

"Maybe his bunny did it," I laugh as I imagine one of his big, fluffy rabbits gnawing on the cord until it gets zapped and it gets up and hops away while Nooch has a panic attack over his lovely computer. Apparently it's only funny in my head because the BenjandBac look irritated and Rob just kinda half-smiles. Right, I should keep my mouth shut until I wake up. Good idea, Preston. Thanks, Preston.

"I know you were convinced it happened two hours ago, but what confirmed your suspicion?" Rob asks too smartly for eleven at night. I just wanna tackle him down on his foot-scented bed and pin him there until he falls asleep. He isn't one of Nooch's Energizer bunnies. I start snickering again and Mitch looks at me like he's getting ticked off. He needs to jump off his high horse and break a leg. I sigh and get up off the gross, groaning bed and turn on the little coffee pot by the TV before I sit back down. If I'm gonna do this, I should at least try to do it right.

"The Big Z did some diagnostic shit and pulled up the records for Mat's computer. Turns out an 'update' got downloaded the instant his computer reconnected to the internet but they waited all day to hit him. They were watching him just like they did with Lava P."

"Is there any way to recover his computer so you can find out what he had on there?" Rob asks and Jerome just shakes his head and takes another drink.

"It's not like it was with Pressy's computer where there was a roundabout way of connecting to it through someone else's Wi-Fi. That's why you always shut off the router, P," the Bacca says as he looks at me with his dark, tired eyes and I nod as I mute my mic and step out of the frame to go to the bathroom. I stare in the mirror and start trying to smooth my hair down under my headset because I look like a lopsided cockatoo. "Anyways, Paul's been sending test packets and trying to set up a connection and Zeus's workin' on tracking down that mystery 'update.' Nothing left to do now but wait and see if Noochy pulls through."

"Can't we just use Rob's phone to call him?" Mitch mumbles as he moves around in the bed and the sheets make a sliding noise. Someone, probably Jerome, starts tapping on something metal in a pattern and I just zone out for a minute.

I wash my hands and look at my reflection again, with the still-messy hair and the dark circles under my eyes and the crooked nose and the squishy, chubby cheeks and that stupid bulgy belly. I look straight down at it and it doesn't look as big as it was yesterday, but it's still too big. That little bag of beef jerky on Friday was the last thing I ate and the brown banana sitting in the trash can by the front door is starting to sound like a feast. I turn to the side and try to suck it in but it just makes my chest look huge and fat and lumpy, plus the pop belly just comes back as soon as I breathe.

At least this whole hacker thing makes it really easy to go on a diet: I didn't bring any food, I can't afford room service because I'll probably have to buy a new recording computer now, and I can't leave to find cheaper food because then I can't keep an eye on Rob and the hacker situation and I hafta save the fifty minutes on my phone in case of an emergency. I guess the best way to lose weight is to just not have a choice. I walk behind the computer, away from the camera and change my clothes real quick while they keep talking, and I grab two styrofoam cups of hot coffee with fake creamer powder and sugar before I sit back down on the bed. I start chugging one down even though it's hot, and it tastes so good I don't care if it burns. I find a comfy position on the bed and pull the laptop in front of me. Mitch looks cranky as usual, Rob looks derpy as usual, and the Bac looks angry as usual and he's waving his hands around and yelling about how something won't work. I lean over and grab a pillow and put it behind my back and I can feel the cup of coffee sloshing around in my stomach. It feels nasty but weirdly satisfying, like I finally accomplished something.

"…Preston did? Do you still have your bill pay statement from March? I remember you had to call his house phone to wake him up, and I don't think they can take his landline offline," Rob explains and it catches my attention when I hear my name. I turn my mic back on and try to tune back in to the conversation.

"Yeah but… Yeah." The Bacca keeps tapping his can on the desk in the same pattern while he stares into space and Mitch moans and grabs his laptop and heads out to the living room to put his computer down in his usual spot. He's probably after more food. He can't sleep so he's gonna go eat until he can sleep again because that's all he freakin' cares about. If he keeps it up, he's gonna evolve into a Snorlax.

" 'But' what? What good would it do to keep sitting around when he might have something we can use?" Rob asks and Jerome nods his head and keeps tapping.

"We could do that, but it's his computer we need to talk to."

"Well, maybe he has an explanation for what happened, or he can give us more information about Dawn's little friend. We should at least hear his side of the story," Rob argues as he looks at something on his main computer and leans back in his comfy leather chair. I miss my good desk chair right now. This hotel room sucks for computer work. Mitch comes back with a cup of something and a giant muffin and Jerome just looks at him and snorts and starts typing out an e-mail on his other screen. "Hey, Mitch? Can you go check those call records and get his number?"

"Yeah dood. Give me a second so I can remember my password."

"Oh for God's fucking sake! Can't you remember _anything_?" Jerome complains while he types and Mitch smirks and takes a big bite before he starts typing something. Between him passing out and not keeping an eye on Rob and him eating in front of me all the time, I'm really not a Benja fan right now. Why's he being such a douchebag? We wait for him to get done logging in and scrolling through his stuff and he finally starts typing again.

"Here, Rob-a-Dob-Flob. I got you a job." He posts the number in group chat and Rob leans over and digs his phone out of his pocket and starts dialing. He unplugs his headset and puts the phone down on the desk and sets it to speakerphone so everyone knows what's going on.

"Hey?" Nooch picks up on the third ring and his voice sounds more annoyed than usual. But if you think about it, he's even more obsessed with his computer than Rob is with his Mac and his precious baby just got nuked. He's probably mourning it right now and wiping his tears on a bunny. I try not to laugh but it sounds like I'm choking and Rob starts chuckling, too.

"Hey, man. How's it going?" Rob asks with a dumb smile and he looks and sounds way too happy for the situation. Jerome rolls his eyes and looks over at his e-mail screen.

"It looks like it's going up in actual smoke right now. Did the Bacca Lacca send you?" I hear metal scraping against metal over the phone and ish just got serious. What the frick could've happened to Nooch that involved pieces of metal? Or does he just have a robot fetish and we interrupted something?

"I am The One Who Bacs. And yeah, of course I sent him! Did you think he'd stop eating flowers long enough to call you himself?" Jerome huffs while he continues tapping his can on the desk. Click click-click, click click-click, click click-click, click click-click. Rob's grinning like a troll and Mitch's just focused on his stupid muffin again. Dad gommit, Mitch.

"Well, have I got a tale for you, boys! I was going to call you in the morning, but this works out _even_ better." His voice brightens up and he sounds almost excited that we called.

"Whatcha got, Noochems?"

"So I got home after the trip today and I did the rounds on the comp before I took a good old snooze. A couple of hours ago, my Skype went off and it said Mitch was calling, so I-"

"Wait, Mitch? Our Mitch?"

"The one and only BenjaKenada. I swear it looked just like his account, with the same name and avatar, everything. It was perfect. If I had been smart, I would have checked the username before I answered it, but… Force of habit, ya know? I accepted the call and it all went downhill from there." If it was anyone but Nooch, it'd sound kinda suspicious that he's so happy about telling his story. He makes it sound like it's the best day of his freakin' life even though all of his stuff's probably screwed up now. I don't get him or the Bacca, but at least the Bac acts in a predictable, evil, too-smart-for-his-own-good way. Nooch is just… he's Nooch.

"What happened? What'd he say?" Jerome's just as serious as Mat isn't serious. He has so much in common with Rob that it's weird that they're friends, and he has so much not in common with Mat that it's weird that _they're_ friends. How does any of this even work?

"As soon as he started talking, I knew something was up. Mitchy doesn't sound like a car salesman." A light bulb goes on in my head and I see my eyes get big on my video feed.

"It's the same guy. I know what you're talking about!"

"Oh, heya Pressy! When did you get here?"

"Don't call me 'Pressy!' "

"Anyways! What'd he say, Nooch?" Jerome interrupts as he smacks his can on the desk for order like he's a judge.

"He tried to apologize for tricking me, like _that_ was going to work. Everything after he opened his mouth was null and void. I told him to cut the crap and he got straight to the point. He tried to offer me a deal that he thought I couldn't refuse: he 'promised' me a spot in TC in exchange for _your_ private e-mail address." Jerome raises his eyebrows and starts to say something but Mat cuts him off. "And no, before you open your big ass mouth and ask, I didn't give it to him. I told him very nicely to go sit on a light pole so he could see how full of shit he was." Rob and I lose it and start laughing like idiots and the other two start snickering and nodding at his joke. I guess you get kinda immune to Noochisms after you've known him for a while, and Rob's just a goofball. I wonder if any of Jerome's radioactive ninja hacker people are laughing, too.

"It sounds like you had some fun, dood. What did you do to him?" Mitch asks as he wipes crumbs off the blue sweater he stole from Rob earlier.

"Pfft, like there was anything _I_ could do to him! I pissed him off pretty good, though. You guys would have been proud of me. I wish I'd recorded it." He moves another piece of metal and he makes three little clanging noises while he talks. "After I told him he was full of shit, he started scrambling to finish his creeping around on my drives and I disconnected my external drive where all of the good stuff is. I asked him if his mommy taught him how to hack like a little bitch and he got really pissy with me. Talk about unprofessional," he says in a mocking voice and Jerome finally facepalms. In less than a minute, Nooch managed to get at least four people to facepalm thousands of miles apart in two different countries. No wonder they call him the Jag Master Admiral – he just unlocked a serious achievement.

"Did you get anything good out of this, besides leveling up your trolling skills again?" the Bacca asks from between his fingers.

"I got enough laughs to last until New Year's. If my computer was going to blow up anyway, what better way to end it than by pissing the guy off so much he screws up?"

"He screwed up? How'd he screw up?" Jerome sits up straight in his chair again and prepares to start scribbling stuff down on his little white notepad like Nooch's gonna dictate the Ten Commandments.

"He was so worried about trying to save his lame spiel about me joining TC that he didn't think to lock his comp down all the way, and Paul's MonkeyWare got a nice sneak peek at his IP address. After he realized what he did, all I could do was fuck with him as much as possible. Bessie was dead either way." He sounds kinda sad about that part, but Nooch-sad is closer to normal laughing than actually being salty. He sounds so proud of himself that I wish he _had_ recorded it so we could've seen what happened or if he's lying about all this. "You should've heard him – it was fucking hil-ar-ious! He called me an 'ugly little motherfucker' and had an even bigger meltdown than my comp! So worth!" If we're talking about the same hacker, it must've taken quite a bit of work to get him to snap like that. I wish I could've done the same thing instead of just sitting around like a lame, useless lump.

"What'd he do to Bess?" The Bacca's serious again and I know he's trying to find a way to get Nooch in on our little Skype group, too. If we've only been talking to him for like three minutes and I'm already in awe, I can't imagine listening to him around the clock for days on end. Maybe that's a bad thing? Does he get annoying like Mitch?

"Ah, poor old Bessie. She hung in there, she really did. If it had been any other computer, I wouldn't have anything left to work with." I can hear scraping metal in the background again, but just little pieces. It sounds like screws, like when Dad was trying to fix the washer before he gave up and called a repairman. So is Nooch taking his computer apart to fix it? I guess it's not _that_ far of a stretch – the guy's into redstone, after all. "He started trying to hurt my feelers, then he ran a CPU max program and stalled my fan so she would overheat. It looks like the asshole melted my motherboard… At least I melted his mom." I can imagine Nooch sitting there with his weird, wolfy eyes, making dumb faces to go along with the voices. He might be even more of a troll than the Bac.

"What's your repair estimate?" There's a loud _clang_ and Nooch makes a little choking noise.

"Ugh! Damn, Bess! This smells like martian shit!" he mutters with a huff. There's another big metal clunk and I can hear him standing up and walking away before a big fan starts blowing close to where the phone's sitting. A dog whines somewhere in his house and he makes a cutesy voice at it before he comes back to the call. "Right now, it just looks like she needs a couple of cables and a new motherboard. I have to check the hard drive before I can say for sure, but it will be about… probably about two hundred bucks for the same MB/RAM combo, plus replacement cables and small parts."

"Shit." The Bacca puts his forehead down on the desk and presses the cold Monster can against his temple. Is he gonna send Mitch to go with Nooch to get the stuff he needs? How much does he have charged to his credit card already? That freakin' sucks.

"What can I say, dood? The guy knows how to fuck shit up."

"Hey, Mat? If you had to cover the cost right now, how short would you be?" Rob asks with his eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted a little bit to the side as he thinks.

"I could cover it easy peasy, but my rent is due on the sixth and it would be coming out of that check. You know I don't make pittle-y shit without Portal."

"If we each pitched in fifty on the first, would you be able to handle the rest?" Now I don't wanna sound like the bad guy or anything, but how's that gonna work if I don't have any money to give him? I still hafta replace my own computer and I'm so broke that Rob's poop pudding looked good because I don't have money for food. I hate to throw Nooch under the bus but you gotta do what you gotta do.

"You guys don't have to do that…" Nooch sounds genuinely surprised, like he didn't expect anyone to offer to help him and we'd just let him go down in flames. Maybe Mitch should take some lessons from him and stop mooching. Heh. 'Mooch.' Moochell Huge. I hafta stop now before I crack up again.

"That sounds like a pretty fair plan, Woof. Don't look so worried, Pressy. Your ass is covered."

"Huh?"

"All MeatCrier did was plant a couple programs on your computer that Paul squished like big, juicy flies. All you need to do is change your ISP address and watch your ass when you go outside for a while. You're home free but you should pay it forward," Jerome hints with his black, blank eyes. I guess I'm starting to like the Bacca after all.

"Oh. Really? In that case, I'll definitely chip in and help. I thought I was royally screwed." I can feel my eyes trying to drift over to the room service menu by the phone but I can't do it. Especially not right in the middle of the call. I'm not gonna be like Mitch.

"Does that sound gucci to everyone?" Rob asks and everyone nods along, even though the Bacca looks less than pleased about the whole thing. He already did so much and now they're asking him to give even more? That's not right.

"No, that's not fair. I'll put in a hundred so Jerome can eat something besides chips."

"You have a 'hun-erd' to waste?" the Bac asks and he looks suspicious, like he doesn't believe me when I say I wanna help. How does this guy have any friends? Like seriously.

"It's not wasting it if Nooch needs it. Besides, what good've I been this whole time? All I did was screw everything up."

"You didn't screw anything up," Rob replies as he shakes his head and Jerome continues staring at me with his creepy black Bacca eyes. I like Nooch's werewolf eyes better. At least I can kinda tell what he's thinking and I know he probably isn't planning my death. "If you hadn't done what you did, Trinh wouldn't have anything to build her security program on. We wouldn't have anything to fight back with if it hadn't been for you."

"That reminds me. One more thing and we'll let you get back to palming Bessie," Jerome interrupts with a little bit of a smirk. Did I really say I was starting to like him a minute ago? Why was I thinking that again?

"What's up, my main Bac?" Nooch sounds even happier than he did earlier and just knowing that I was able to help him makes me feel a million times less useless.

"Is there any way you can get her online so Paul can grab that IP? You wouldn't believe how much I'd pay for that fucking number right now."

"You don't even know, man. I wish I had a way to show you. There is legit a black hole burnt right through the chip. It looks like Rob's cooking and my house smells like a bonfire. I'm sorry, but I can't help."

"Nah, G. We're good. Good luck with the Bessinator and give us a call if anything else comes up."

"Do you need my number?" Rob asks and Mitch moves up to his webcam and makes an exaggerated winky face before he gets up to throw his trash away. I can hear him digging around for something else in the kitchen. Is this guy for realsies? How can he be so skinny when all he does is eat and sleep? Why couldn't I be that lucky? I don't eat for two days and I'm still fat.

"I've got your number, sweet cheeks. How could I forget?" Nooch says in a baby voice and Rob pretends to cover a fake blush. Now I definitely can't see _that_ ever happening. Rob and Mitch, kinda maybe sorta, but not Rob and Nooch. They'd go bonkers and kill their neighbors by bashing in their heads with their computer towers while they ran around with gold Burger King crowns on their heads. I've seen them spaz out together at conventions and it's freakin' scary.

"We'll catch ya later, Noochy. Give her a big ol' slurp for me," Jerome yells as he turns to start typing again and Mitch adds something from the kitchen that I don't understand.

"See ya la-" I try to join in but Rob and the Bac have their cheeks sucked in making that stupid slurping noise and I have to hold my headphones away from my ears before they start bleeding. Jerome just keeps working on whatever he's typing but Rob looks at me and starts laughing. I pretend to glare at him and get up to look at the hotel's menu for something that isn't disgustingly fatty. I wanna keep the weight off. While I'm reading, Jerome starts tapping his can on his desk again, over and over again. Click click-click, click click-click, click click-click, click click-click. Is he trying to play a song, or is that Morse code for something horrible I shouldn't question?

"Is that what I think it is?" Rob asks and I can hear the grin in his voice as he taps along with his knuckles. Am I missing something here?

"What? Can't a Bac enjoy his favorite song?"

"I knew it. It's very fitting right now. Why don't you play it for us?"

"At least then we wouldn't hafta listen to Mitch chomp on his muffin again…" I mumble, hoping he can't hear me from Rob's kitchen. The other two start laughing and I realize that that might've been the first time I heard Jerome actually laugh in like two days. Maybe he's more human than Bacca after all. Maybe.

"Please? You know you want to sing it for the Mitchell," Rob pleads in his sad voice and Jerome sighs before he starts clicking around on his phone. After a few seconds, a cheesy Christmas song starts playing through my headphones and I feel like I'm really out of the loop. What the frick is happening here? I grab the menu and go sit on the bed to watch the Bac lose the rest of his ish.

"Just for you, Woof. You're the only one who appreciates my beautiful voice."

"It's art, man. How could I _not_ appreciate it?" Jerome smirks and turns up the volume on his phone before he starts headbanging, tapping his can in time with the song. Click click-click, click click-click, click click-click, click click-click. Rob's trying to dance in his chair and he's making it scoot back and forth while he acts like a troll. Great, so now he broke Rob, too. Is he bipolar or something? He was just sitting there all serious for hours and hours on end, and now he's dancing on his butt with that dumb grin on his face like he's the best thing ever. I just sit there in horror and try not to facepalm. I hear Mitch yell something in the background that sounds suspiciously like "oh, fuck no" but I'm not really sure. Did Mat's Noochiness spread through Rob's phone and infect everyone but me? What the heck _is_ this even? Am I living real life YouTube now? Is this a livestream? Then the song starts and Jerome's singing along with Rob joining in when he knows the words, which isn't much. That noise… Why do their troll voices have to be so _high_?

" _It's Christmas at Ground Zero,_

 _There's music in the air._

 _The sleigh bells are ringin'_

 _And the carolers are singin'_

 _While the air raid sirens blare._

 _It's Christmas at Ground Zero,_

 _The button has been pressed._

 _The radio just let us know_

 _That this's not a test._

 _Everywhere the atom bombs are droppin'._

 _It's the end of all humanity._

 _No more time for last minute shoppin'._

 _It's time to face your final destiny._

 _It's Christmas at Ground Zero,_

 _There's panic in the crowd._

 _We can dodge debris_

 _While we trim the tree_

 _Underneath the mushroom cloud."_

Okay, I'll admit it's catchy and it sounds like something Jerome'd use to tick Mitch off and rub this whole YouTube war thing in his face, but I can't get over how awful the Bacca's screeching is. This's like that He-Man crap he always sings. So far, the intermission's the best part of the song. Seriously, he sounds like some kinda monster from a Silent Hill game and Rob looks like he's having a seizure. I dunno if he's still trying to dance in his spinny chair or if he's just laughing that hard. He's so happy all of a sudden…

" _You might hear some_

 _Reindeer on your rooftop,_

 _Or Jack Frost on your windowsill,_

 _But if someone's climbin'_

 _Down your chimney,_

 _You'd better load your gun_

 _And shoot to kill._

 _It's Christmas at Ground Zero,_

 _And if the radiation level's okay,_

 _I'll go out with you_

 _And see all the new_

 _Mutations on New Year's Day._

 _It's Christmas at Ground Zero,_

 _Just seconds left to go!_

 _I'll duck and cover"_

"We're done!"

" _With my yuletide lover_

 _Underneath the mistletoe."_

"We're done! Nope, we're done!" Mitch appears in the background of Rob's video feed with two paper plates of food and he looks absolutely _pissed_. His nose is wrinkled up in disgust and he looks like he'd punch a baby off the Eiffel Tower. You'd think someone'd just ripped open a trash bag and thrown rotten food all over his house. Then again, that just sounds like something else the Bacca'd do.

" _It's Christmas at Ground Zero,_

 _Now the missiles_

 _Are on their way!"_

"We're done now, guys! It's over! I get it!"

" _What a crazy fluke,_

 _We're gonna get nuked_

 _On this jolly holiday!_ "

"Rob, we're done!" Mitch tries to smash one of the plates of food in Rob's face, but he manages to fight him off and just makes a weird sideways face at whatever's on the plate. What'd Mitch make in the lab this time? But Jerome keeps singing, ending off opera-style. He knows no one can stop _him_.

" _What a crazy fluke,_

 _We're gonna get nuked_

 _On this jol-ly ho-li-daaaaaaay!_ "

"That was beautiful, man. It brought tears to my eyes," Rob says in his troll voice with that dumb, derpy grin as Mitch hands him the plate he was trying to smash in his face. "What is this?"

"What does it look like, Robert? This is what we call a 'two dollar birthday cake.' " Rob looks back up at Mitch and over at the camera with a guilty look on his face. Oh, frick. I forgot it was his birthday. Again. I'm officially the worst best friend ever. Even Mitch did better than me. Are they actually dating or am I just seeing things? It looks to me like they're a thing now. But even if they aren't, why am I so mad at Mitch just for being nice to Rob for once? I should he happy for him, or at least not mad at Mitch. This makes zero freakin' sense.

"Aw, guys… You didn't have to do this."

"Don't look at me. It was all Mitch's idea. And you thought he was just gonna go out and buy boxes of cereal to eat on camera so he could piss off Pressy." So that's what was goin' on. Wait, they actually make plans to tick me off? Am I that much fun to pick on?

"We got waffles for the Woofless. Now stop being a big baby and enjoy your Birthday at Ground Zero. _Without_ the singing." Mitch stabs a fork in the little stack of syrupy, frozen blueberry waffles and turns to walk back to the living room to get on his computer. Jerome bends over and picks up another bag of chicken and waffle flavored chips and he rips it open and starts crunching away. I guess I know what I'm gonna order from room service now.

"Happy birthday, Rob-a-Dob-Flob!" I add in so I don't look like I'm too far out of the loop. I feel bad enough already without him noticing it or one of the other two pointing out that I completely spaced about it. I need to get him a present or something. I feel awful.

"Happy D-Day, Woof. You're what, twenty-nine now?"

"I'm twenty-seven. Are you really trying to kill me, bro? I feel old enough as it is."

Wait, Rob's almost thirty? Wow. I thought he was like twenty-three. Is that why he's so handsome? Okay, no. A hundred times frickin' no. I've gotta stop doing that. I facepalm so they can't see how red my face is and I look down at the menu to find the number to call for my food. My pride hurts even more than my stomach right now.

* * *

 **June 28, 2012 at 6 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

He acts like I don't know, like I can't see right through him when he tries to hide it. He acts like this is some big secret that only he can know, like he hasn't already confessed to me about it. How can he pretend that nothing is wrong and that he feels perfectly normal? It hurts that he thinks I am so blind, or that he isn't important enough to me. I thought we were closer than that.

Preston is frowning while he looks at something on his computer screen, his hand clutching his fourth cup of coffee and his hair still sticking up on the right side where he slept on it all night. All he has eaten over the last two days is coffee and half of a small plate of plain waffles, and it was obvious that the only reason he even ate that much was so he could join in on Mitch's little birthday party for me. He thinks no one noticed that he hasn't been eating again, but I did. I always notice when he starts binging, or when he goes for days at a time without eating anything but the occasional protein bar. He worries so much about me when I feel perfectly fine, yet he blows up in my face whenever I confront him about his eating habits.

'I wish he could see what he is doing to himself and how unnecessary all of this is.' He takes another drink and turns to look out the window of his room while he thinks, probably staring at his balcony railing and the line of cooing pigeons that he always complains about. Even in the dim lighting from his table lamp, I can see that he has dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks look sunken. Between the overwhelming stress, the long hours without sleep, and the rapid weight loss, he looks sick and unhappy. How could someone who seems so carefree and confident on the outside have such low self-esteem? Preston is so unpredictable.

'If only I could talk to him about this.'

I sigh and turn to stare at Sirius's screen again, taking in the new background that had suddenly appeared an hour ago: my navy blue sky full of stars had transformed into an abstract sketch of blue boxes, turning black as they reach the bottom of the screen. As promised, Trinh's software had notified me the moment LeetFire infiltrated by computer with his monitoring program. Although my Dell is so old that it doesn't have a camera he can use to watch me, it does have a working microphone. I can no longer talk to Mitch or anyone in the Skype call without typing it in group chat where anyone can see it at any time. I have a set of noise-cancelling earbuds in and a stand fan running on the other side of the room to prevent him from hearing me type on Procy's keyboard or any murmurs from the main call. All I have to do is pretend to be working on a base for a new Minecraft series and edit a couple of unused videos until the show begins. I need to look busy so he doesn't get suspicious.

I break down the cracked stone wall for the third time and groan under my breath, frustrated by my own indecisiveness. What do you do when you have all of the time in the world and no inspiration? I have too much on my mind to worry about building a virtual castle that I will never use for anything. I rebuild the wall again, this time including a row of cobblestone fences to give it depth, but as soon as I finish, I tear that down, too. Even the hacker must think I am crazy at this point. With any luck, I will bore him to death with my aimless, fruitless building and he will call me sooner than he had planned. I check the group call and see that Jerome and Mitch are still asleep, covering their faces with their blankets to block out the faint light from the sunrise. I look over at Preston and I catch him watching me again. He waves awkwardly with his fingers and gives me a small smile, then he goes back to whatever else he was doing.

'Did Mitch tell him to babysit me, or is he just staring at me?' I switch over to plain stone blocks and begin building a different kind of wall, trying to push the thought from my mind. I just tear it down again and start over with cobblestone.

'That would be another disaster that I don't want to deal with.' My own feelings cause me enough stress without having to worry about Preston returning those feelings. I am too old, too broken, and too scared to be in love with him. Judging by the way he reacted when I explained my drowsiness from my medication, and when I corrected Jerome about my age, he has no idea what he would be getting into. He doesn't understand what loving me would mean.


	21. Chapter 21

**Warning: This would be a good time to check the story description and make sure that you are comfortable with** ** _all_** **of the current story warnings. This is where things start getting serious and disturbing. I am not responsible for awkward laughter or bleeding eyeballs past this line.**

* * *

 **June 28, 2012 at 12 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

My head is pounding so hard I can't even focus my eyes and it takes a few seconds for me to figure out where I am. I'm in the back of an RV on a hard little bed and it's so dark I can only see like two feet around me. I don't know why I'm here or how I got here – all I know is it smells like sauerkraut and the stench's making my eyes tear up. I look around again and try to get up to figure out what's happening, but my arms won't move. They're tied up over my head to the cooling pipes behind me with thick rope and nothing I do makes them any looser. I'm trapped here and no amount of struggling is doing any good.

"Hello? What's going on? Can anyone hear me?" I say every word louder than the last but no one answers or comes to help. I pull at the ropes some more and every failed tug just makes my breathing faster and harder and noisier. Someone trapped me here and who knows what they're gonna do to me. I can't escape. I can't do anything but sit here and wait for them to come back. I try to kick at the side of the RV to get someone's attention, but all I manage to do is stub my toe hard enough to make myself whimper like a scared puppy. Who am I kidding? I _am_ a scared puppy. "Hello?!" I hear heavy footsteps outside and someone turns a squeaky door handle down at the end of the trailer. The light's so bright they just look like a black, shapeless blob.

"Hey there, sweetheart. Did ya have yourself a nice nap?" My heart stops and it feels like my soul's trying to crawl out of my mouth and fly away. Why is this happening to me? What'd I do to deserve this? I inch myself up into the corner so my legs are as far away from him as possible, and he just chuckles and turns the overhead light on. He shuffles in in his cowboy boots with his greasy yellow-grey hair swinging behind him and he walks over to the little kitchen area right across from the bed. He digs around in the cupboard under the sink and comes back with a filthy hot plate. He plugs it into the little outlet next to the sink and switches it on before he turns to look at me. "We're gonna have us some fun, don't you think, darlin'?" I gather up all the spit in my mouth and hack it at him but he just laughs and starts walking back out. "You're a spirited one, now aren't ya? That's the best kind."

He shuts the light off and closes the door behind him and I'm stuck here listening to the hot plate whistle as it warms up. I can't see or hear anything else, and it's driving me insane. He's gonna come back and kill me. He's gonna come back and screw me and kill me and eat me, and there's nothing I can do about it but spit at him and scream. It already feels like someone's ripping my stomach out and it's making me sick. Maybe if he comes back soon I can puke on him. I pull at the rope some more but it isn't budging. It isn't long before I can hear his boots on the concrete again and I know he's coming back.

"Please! Somebody help me! You hafta help me!" I hear him jingling his keys outside the door and the door handle screams when he opens it. He's standing out there, smiling at me with a big bottle of cooking oil in one hand and a giant box of beer in the other. He slides his stuff in and throws the Walmart receipt on the ground so the wind blows it away. He lights up a cigarette and just stands there in the doorway, watching me try to pull my arms out of the ropes. He tied them so tight I can't feel the tips of my fingers now. I'm not getting out of this. He's really gonna kill me.

"Such a pretty little face. Your mama musta been so proud." He smirks and takes another puff, pushing the grey smoke out his nose. He's so dirty even his smoke can't be white. I watch in horror as someone else slowly walks up to the door of the RV, their shadow blocking out the rest of the sunlight. Are they gonna take turns torturing me until they get bored and decide to eat me? Oh God, please have mercy. What'd I do to deserve this? Whatever it was, I'm sorry. I'll fix it. I'll be a better man. Please, please just save me from this monster. The hot plate starts shrieking like a tea kettle right next to my head and the lump in my throat is so big I can barely breathe. This's the end for me. I'm gone. "That's right, sweetheart. Dance for me. You're dancin' away with my heart."

"Burn in hell, psycho!" He laughs under his breath and crushes his cigarette out on the doorframe, stepping up into the RV and pulling the door shut behind him.

"There's that pretty little tongue of yers. I was wonderin' if the cat got it." The door's almost shut when he jerks back around and it flies open again. He gives a startled shout as he falls backwards and I hear him grunt when he lands on the ground. I thought he just lost his balance and fell until I hear a sickening squish and something splatter. Great, just my luck. The psycho just got killed by an even bigger psycho and now I hafta watch 'em eat both of us. They stand up and I can see it's definitely a guy, and he's using the corpse's shirt to wipe the dark red blood off his knife like he's got all the time in the world. I squeeze my eyes shut and I just hope he makes it quick, like he did with Creepy McCreeperson. Please God, let it be quick.

"You really have a knack for getting in trouble, Preston." My eyes fly back open at the sound of his voice and I've never been happier to see him in my entire life.

"And you're really good at always gettin' me out of it." Rob steps up into the RV and pulls the door shut with that cheesy grin he always gets when he thinks he made a good joke. He doesn't have a single spot of blood on his dumb blue sweater, like he's done this a thousand times before and knows the ropes. "How'd you find me?"

"I can't tell you all of my secrets, now can I?" He crawls up on the bed with me and grabs my wrists to start cutting the rope off, but he thinks better of it and tosses the long knife down on the floor next to the bed. He looks down at me with his crooked smile and messy hair and all I can do is smile back. It sounds weird but I'm not even mad at him for keeping me tied up here.

"I can keep a secret. Tell me."

"Well, first of all, you're awfully cute."

"You, too." His trolly grin turns into a soft smile and he reaches down and brushes my hair to the side so it's out of my eyes. His fingers are cold like always, but the rest of him is so warm and inviting… He moves closer so he's basically sitting on my lap with his knees on either side of my hips. I've never been this close to someone before but it isn't uncomfortable like I thought it'd be. Nothing about Rob makes me uncomfortable.

"I don't think I can let you go – not when you look like this." One hand holds my right shoulder down on the bed and the other moves up to cup my left cheek. He strokes my face with his thumb and pauses for a second before he slowly moves down to close the gap between us.

His lips are warm and gentle against mine and his beard gently scratches against my skin. It isn't pointy or rough like I imagined it. The kiss is really jerky and awkward for a few seconds until I get the hang of it, and our mouths move in perfect harmony. I don't ever want this moment to end, but if it does, I just want him to cut the rope so I can pull him in for another kiss.

I've been waiting for this for so long. He runs his hand through my hair and he gently bites down on my lower lip and makes me sigh in contentment. He always knows just what I need. I move my face even closer to his and I hear the soft _click_ of our teeth bumping together. I can feel the light brush of his tongue against my bottom lip and a whole new world of possibilities just opened up before my eyes. I move down to meet him and-

"God dammit." The tower of empty Monster cans sounds like a musical avalanche as it collapses right next to Jerome's microphone and it goes on forever. He looks more disappointed than angry and he just sits there and watches his collection flow down onto the floor. It scares the frick outta me and I wake up at the stupid little wooden table in my hotel room with a big red crease on my face where I fell asleep on my arm. It's the same dream as last time, except I didn't wake up before Rob showed up to save me. Does that mean it's gonna go further every time? I throw that thought right back outta my mind but my face still turns bright red. I immediately look over at Skype and Rob's still working on whatever he's been doing all day with a little smile on his face. I check Mitch's camera feed and he's still squinting at something on his screen with his chin on his arm. So he's keeping an eye on Rob. Everything's fine. Sorta.

It feels like someone put a ten-pound weight on my lap while I was sleeping and it takes a second for me to realize what happened. Holy _crap_. I have to still be sleeping. This can't be real. I pretend to stretch and the movement just rearranges things and makes it even worse. I've never been so uncomfortable in pajama pants in my life. It feels like they're three sizes too small and they're really, really rough and scratchy. I need to take care of this before someone else notices and turns it into a big joke I'll never, ever live down. I get teased enough already without letting the Bac see me saluting. Thank the Lord I turned my mic off when the BenjandBac were recording earlier or I'd be so… screwed. I can't say that right now. It's too soon for that, Preston. I tilt the screen of the laptop back as far as I can so the camera's pointed upwards away from my lap and I slowly stand up, trying not to make any weird faces even though it really freakin' hurts and it's disturbingly wet. I leave my headset on the table and do the most awkward walk imaginable over to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I turn on the light and look at myself in the mirror and I can see the waistband of my pants lifting up on the left side. That coulda been really, really, _really_ bad.

"Why'd it hafta be _him_?" I mutter as I waddle over to sit on the side of the bath tub so I can get rid of my problem. I can't even look my reflection in the eye and I can't tell which part of my body's redder or more painful.

Does dreaming about it still make me a sinner?


	22. Chapter 22

**Trigger Warning: The first section of this chapter might be very triggering for some readers. If you don't think you can handle it, I encourage you to click away or skip to the next section. Please see the story description for an updated list of warnings.**

* * *

 **June 28, 2012 at 2 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

Sixty-nine. Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two. Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Seventy-five. Seventy-six. Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight. Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eighty-five. Eighty-six. Eighty-seven. Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

The third tower is finally done and I can move on to the next project: the wall. I scroll through the list of materials in creative mode and my eyes land on Netherrack. That could be interesting. It wouldn't match the pattern on the rest of the castle, though. It would be distracting. Maybe I should stick to stone bricks. Their texture is in three parts on six identical sides, just like everything else. I need to keep the symmetry intact and the number in threes or the entire project will be for nothing. It has to be _perfect_.

I move out from the front of the castle by fifteen blocks and mark the length of the wall – it will be exactly thirty-three blocks long and nine blocks high. It will have three perfectly symmetrical and equilateral sides, which will be nine blocks away from the towers at the narrowest point. No one can tell me this isn't perfect: they would have to be blind not to see it.

'But they _are_ blind, aren't they? They never see the details like you do.'

'They won't appreciate it. You know that.'

'They don't need to know. They don't deserve to see.'

'Keep it to yourself. They will laugh at you, just like Darryl did.' I pause the game and lift my arms up to stretch, glancing over at the clock. It is 2:16. Sixteen can't be divided into threes. I can't leave yet. I look over at the Skype call on Procyon's screen and see that even our call is in three parts: Jerome is typing away on an e-mail, Preston is scowling while he murders players on COD, and I am looking at myself on the screen. Mitch still hasn't logged back on.

'They can't know. They would think you were crazy. Jerome and Preston would fall apart, and Mitch would call Dad to take me back to Portail. They can't know. I don't trust them.' It hurts to know that I can't share what I have learned, that I can't show them how perfectly everything fits together. Why doesn't anyone comprehend how important this is? Even Preston wouldn't be able to appreciate it. He wouldn't understand.

The clock finally turns to 2:18 and I slowly leave my office and shut the door behind me to keep any noise from reaching Sirius's microphone and LeetFire's ears. I creep out into the hallway and peer into the front of the apartment. Mitch is hanging upside down on the living room couch with his vile feet resting on the back pillows where people put their heads. At least he had enough sense to lay in the middle one with an empty cushion on each side of him. I know he only did it by chance, though; nobody else has figured out the answer yet. His eyes are closed and the top point of his hair is only centimeters from the floor, his face partially hidden behind the coffee table. I silently move to the left side of the hallway and go into the bathroom, peeking out through the doorway to see if Mitch is still oblivious. When he doesn't move, I carefully close and lock the bathroom door and open the medicine cabinet, grabbing the bottle of antidepressants before searching under the sink for the little slot behind the drain plunger.

I grab the tiny, hidden blade and quietly wash it off in the sink before drying it off on a clean, black washrag, watching it shine in the light as I move back over to the large, orange bottle. It feels like I am a cocaine addict staring at a baggy full of cheap crack; the high will never be as amazing as it would be with my scalpels, but it is still so tempting to indulge. There's no time for this now. I pull my eyes away from the dull shard of metal and I shake three pills out and line them up on the counter. I grab the razor blade and cut each pill in half, swallowing one small piece before I quickly return the others to the bottle before Bitchy Mitch the Babysitter can catch me. A half of a dose is just enough to keep me afloat without causing me to zone out and lose myself. I took the last half pill yesterday, and I had spent all day trying to find the best opportunity to do this without the supervisor breathing down my neck and questioning everything I do. He acts like I can't take care of myself.

'At least I won't have to worry about doing this again for a couple of days. Mitch would have a shit fit if he caught me with another blade. I am surprised he lets me shave my own face.' I wash the pill cutter off again and dry it before returning it to its home under the sink, blood-free and thirsty. I put the bottle of pills away and turn the light off, stealthily opening the door and sneaking past the living room to the kitchen to find something to eat, doctor's orders. The clock on the stove silently screams that it is 2:24 with its angry red numbers, and I catch myself smiling at the perfect timing. Everywhere I look, I find more evidence and the rule of threes grows stronger. I grab the leftover half of my sub sandwich from yesterday from the fridge, listening to it humming its never-ending song in the kitchen as I go to sit in the armchair next to Mitch's couch. He must smell the food because he wakes up shortly afterward, his eyes widening in panic when he sees me.

'Do I scare him that much? How funny.'

"Hey, Mitch."

"Hi dood. What are you doing here? I thought you were keeping our little friend entertained." He starts to sit up, but decides against it and flops back down near the floor.

"I was, but I needed to get some fresh air. I could still smell your feet in there and it was even making my trifecta of computers sick." He scoffs and looks up at me with his usual snotty grin, crossing his arms in mock offense. "How is it going on your end?"

"Very, very slowly. We really screwed up this time."

" 'We?' Are we speaking French here, _monsieur_?"

" _Oui_. I lost two hundred thousand subs in less than four days. It will take more than a couple of hours before we can recover from that. The plan is coming together now, though."

"You know that isn't what I meant. How are _you_ holding up?" He rubs his eyes and sighs, nodding gently and causing his spikes to brush the wooden floor.

"I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we've been better. I have never felt so... Betrayed. Helpless. Alone. I don't know. I know it was stupid and I wish it could have turned out differently, but Jerome and I both knew it was coming. At least I got to go out with some honor."

"That you did, Benja, that you did. I know you will figure something out. You always do. Look what happened when Aiden banned you from his server – you found a way to build The Fridge. Do you know why that is?"

"Hmmm?" He looks amused, but I catch him staring at my sandwich. I quickly take another bite before I answer.

"Like the Bacca always says: 'you're the best a-round! And nuthin's gonna bring Benj down!' " He laughs under his breath and he looks happier now than he has all day. I make sure to chew six times before I swallow, wondering if he noticed when he pauses.

'How could he have noticed?'

"I thought you were going to start singing that god-awful Christmas song again."

"Why would I sing a Christmas song, bro? I'm Jewish."

"Who knows with you. That's what happens when the Rob-a-Dob doesn't have a job."

'That nickname… Three parts with three letters and three syllables. Three rhyming words. Does he understand the rule of threes? This has to be a coincidence. Mitch never notices anything.'

'Is that an act? Does he know more than you do? Did he know all along? When did he come up with that name?'

'Distract him. He can't know, not yet. It isn't the right time.'

"Mom used to say that I was mentally interesting. Fine things only get better with time." I try to keep the smile on my face so he won't notice that I suspect him. If he finds out that I know, things will go downhill for me. I take another bite of my food, trying to ignore the small wave of panic gnawing at the back of my mind. I chew six times, careful to keep my eyes on his face.

"It depends on your definition of 'fine.' 'Fine' as in beautiful, or 'fine' as in normal?"

"Why not both? Can't normal be beautiful?" He doesn't seem satisfied with my answer and he raises his eyebrows and blinks at me a couple of times. "What?"

'He knows now.'

'Can't you keep a secret?'

'He doesn't understand.'

'I'm not sick.'

"You seem pretty optimistic today, even for you. Maybe you should get some sleep, Rob."

"Right before the show is about to start? Don't make me laugh. What's wrong with a little optimism?" I take a third bite of my sandwich and get to my feet, making sure to chew it six times while I lazily walk back to the office. Even if he suspects something, he can't prove anything. He is too blind to see what is right there in front of him, even when it's perfectly obvious.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to get back to work before Jerome starts thinking you're cheating on him with me."

"Pfft. The Bac would rather screw Coco than me. He wouldn't want me if I was the last living thing on Earth."

"Stop talking about Preston like that." He snorts and pulls himself up to his feet, cautiously following behind me and peering around the corner into my office. I pretend not to notice him and sit down in my chair, sliding the left earbud back into my ear while I check the Skype call. Very little has changed. Jerome is spinning aimlessly around and around in his chair with his eyes staring into space, and Preston has faceplanted on the table, tapping his forehead gently on the cheap wood.

'They have the gall to call _me_ crazy. Look at these three: Mitch with his guilt, Jerome with his paranoia, and Preston with his anxiety. This is going to be good.'

* * *

 **June 28, 2012 at 3 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I need to stop thinking about Rob but I can't. And I'm not talking about _that_ way, either. He's different now, like he's really weirdly happy all the time. He's been sitting at his computer since our little party last night with that annoying grin on his face like he's having the time of his life over there. What could he be doing that's so frickin' great? Or does he know what happened to me earlier? Did Jerome turn my mic back on so everyone could hear me? I know I talk in my sleep because Mom and Dad make fun of me about it all the time, so I was probably moaning and making all kinds of awful noises. I put my forehead down on the table again and I just stay there until my face isn't bright red like Satan's deep butt crack. I bet he knows all about it and he's waiting for the other two to go to sleep so he can bug me about it. Now Rob's gonna start teasing me all the time, too.

But that's the nicer option. What if he doesn't know about my dream and this's something else? It isn't just his constant smiling that's weird. He's hyper, like _really_ hyper. When he isn't clicking like a hundred miles an hour doing whatever he's doing on his computer, he's sitting there playing with that dumb rubber band ball, taking one off and putting it on, taking it off and putting it on, picking it up and putting it down even if he suddenly throws it down and starts clicking again a second later. For hours now. And he isn't getting tired. It's exhausting just watching him. Is this what Mitch was talking about when he said he starts working nonstop? Does he always do this? Now this's really freaking me out. What if he's been sitting there losing it the whole time and no one noticed because it happened so slowly? When did he start falling apart? Was it early this morning when Jerome started singing that stupid song? No, because he was all jittery before that, just not as bad as he is now. Does he act like this every time he starts cutting? But how could someone who looks so happy wanna hurt himself? Even his derpy Minecraft skin doesn't look as happy as him. What the frick is goin' on?

I click on the tab for our private chat from earlier, rereading the message for the umpteenth time:

 _Derek: Please don't misunderstand. When the time comes, let me explain before you fly off the handle. [heart]_

What does that _mean_? Is all this hyperactive, too-cheerful bullshrimp just for show? Is he trying to confuse the hacker? I know they're watching him now, Jerome admitted it even though he looked like he wished he hadn't said anything right after. Is he just playing up his weirdness to catch LeetFire off guard so they can pull off whatever plan they've been working on? That might be what he meant: he doesn't want me to freak out because he's really just fine but he can't actually tell me because it's part of his plan and the Bac doesn't trust me with anything. On the other hand, what good what him acting like that do? He said he unplugged his webcam and it's pretty hard to hear him being mega hyper.

So what if that's not what he meant? What if he meant something completely different and he really _is_ losing his ish? Can I really trust Mitch to keep an eye on him when he fell asleep during his shift yesterday after he told me he wouldn't? And I just don't trust Jerome. Trust is a two-way street and he doesn't even trust me to give Nooch cash to repair his computer. Can I really believe the Bacca would drop everything and call off the plan to save Mitch just because Rob loses it? Mitch's the only one he cares about, everyone knows that. Rob's just a free place to stay and a pawn to use in his stupid little game. A real friend would've done something by now. I open a new private chat window for me and Mitch:

 _Me: Is Rob ok?_

 _Donald: i was going to ask you the same thing_

 _Donald: has he said anything to you?_

 _Me: No he doesnt have to, look at him_

I minimize the chat window and Rob's frowning at something on his main computer, his head slowly moving from right to left like he's counting something. He's still doing it half a minute later when Mitch writes back.

 _Donald: he was acting weird earlier when he left to eat, checked the room and he wasnt doing anything too crazy_

 _Me: Does he usually do this when hes by himself or is this not normal?_

 _Donald: hard to tell, i thought youd be the one to ask_

 _Me: Ive never seen him freak out before. Have you?_

 _Donald: not like this, hes never wild like this, usually just tired and depressed, working to make himself sleep_

 _Donald: if nothing happens by tonite ill slip sleeping pills in his drink_

 _Me: k_

So it isn't just for the camera. He did it off-camera, too. He's actually losing it. And there's nothing I can do to help him. As bad as the nightmares with Creepy McCreeperson are, this's even worse. And he doesn't even realize it's happening. He isn't punching walls or screaming in tongues, but he isn't _him_. If he acts totally out of it like this when he hurts himself, does he even feel any pain? Does he know what he's doing when he's trying to kill himself? Who is this guy sitting in Rob's chair?

All I can do is sit here and watch and wait for something to happen. Hopefully it isn't something completely irreversible.

* * *

 **June 28, 2012 at 6 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

 _BEEP!_ I minimize YouTube and go back over to Skype to see what the Bacca wants. I try to turn my mic back on but it won't let me click on the button. Did the hacker get me again?! Did he get Jerome?! I look up at the screen and Jerome has a finger over his lips, telling me to shut up. So he just turned off our mics. Phew. I thought I was screwed again. Not the best word choice, Preston. I need a new frickin' vocabulary. I can hear Skype ringing in my ear and I know what's happening: we're gonna sit here and watch Rob try to deal with the hacker when he's half out of his mind. Isn't there another way to do this? Can't they do something else to end this stupid internet war? Rob grimaces and sighs before he stops clicking and he goes to answer the call. He looks almost angry, but still kinda sad. I wonder if he's gonna lose whatever he was working on all day. I'd be pretty pissed, too.

"Hello?" Now there's the sarcastic Rob-a-Dob-Flob we all know and love. Okay, maybe not the best word.

"Hi there! I was hoping I could get ahold of you. I hate playing phone tag." This's exactly how it started last time, except everyone's in on it now. This guy's gonna get his butt kicked from east to west and back again.

"You aren't Preston. Why are you using his account?" Wait, what? He's pretending to use my account? So… he picks the one he knows we'll always answer, like Mitch with Nooch. And he somehow knew I always let my curiosity get the better of me and answer mystery calls. Well, I used to. That's a mistake I'll never make again.

"I think we both know why I have Preston's account. Do you have a few minutes so we can have a little chat?" This's different. Is he pretending to hold me hostage? After all this time? Maybe he's not as smart as I thought he was. Rob's just picking at his stupid rubber band ball, snapping a bunch of them off and sorting them into piles by color. Does he always do this?

"What is there to chat about? TBNRfrags is dead."

"Ouch! Why so cold, dude? Don't you care about Preston?"

"Whoever you are, you don't know me half as well as you think you do."

"Is that so? What would he think if he heard you say that?"

"Why would I give a shit about what that little greaseball thinks of me? Are you going to run and tell him what I said? Be my _guest_." I've never heard Rob sound so… cruel before. I know he's just being a sarcastic jerkwad to play along, but if you put his voice in a bottle you could use it to acid wash your pool. I hope this's what he was talking about in that message earlier and he doesn't really think about me like this.

"I could do that. He's just a couple clicks away, after all. So I have your permission to delete all of his accounts?"

"If that will get you the fuck out of my computer, go for it. He served his purpose."

"So _that's_ how it is. You get what you want and you bail. Have you been waiting for something like this to happen? Just like with Machinima?"

"Is there a point to all of this? I was in the middle of something when you dropped by to sniff your ass in my ear," he answers with a smile, his words curling up at the ends like they always do when he's trying not to laugh. I have to cover my mouth to keep from losing it, too. He's such a frickin' troll! Is he trying to pull a Nooch and tick the guy off so he effs up? Jerome's hacker friends are probably drooling all over their keyboards right now, waiting to strike.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the shower door and forgot their gas mask. You might want to hear what else I have."

"What is it this time? Gonorrhea?" Rob starts putting the rubber bands back on the ball in little triangle star shapes, one color at a time as calm as can be. You'd think he was waiting for a bus with nothing better to do.

"I have his address." Wait, what? He's gotta be bluffing. How could he've got that? The Bac would've told me, right? He has to be faking it.

"Good for you, man. Good for you." There's a short pause as he loudly snaps a big rubber band in place and he looks too happy for his own good. "Did you call me to tell me that you're finally going to send him a love letter?"

"Don't you want to protect your sweet, innocent little friend? Do you _want_ to see him get hurt?"

"Before you can try to blackmail someone, you have to actually have some kind of currency. I am not going to give you a twenty note for a fiver."

"What kind of currency are we talking here?"

"You are trying to take out Jerome, right? Logically, you would have to have something worse on me than Jerome does, and that is pretty hard to come by." I look over at the Bacca and he seems more than pleased with their little plan while I'm just freaking out over here about Rob losing his mind and some creep having my address. All my stuff could be gone by the time I get home if he posts it all over the internet like he did with Mitch.

"You care more about your own ass than you do your so-called friends?"

"Obviously." I trust Rob with my life, but what if this isn't all just an act? What if some of it's true? Is he really using me? He wouldn't do that, right? Why's it so easy for me to doubt him now? "You know, you might be almost as smart as Preston. On the other hand, _he_ figured it out a long time ago."

"You seem pretty confident for someone who uses Microsoft Defender for your antivirus."

"Is that a threat, or are you just admitting that you have nothing to use against me?" He's just taunting the hacker now, trying to get him to do something stupid. I wonder who's gonna do it faster: Nooch or Rob? "You act like you know the rule of threes, man. Don't put yourself so high up on a pedestal when you act so ignorant."

"You aren't invincible, Rob. You should stop trying to make enemies and take a good look around – if you don't cooperate, I'll take you down, too. You'll wish it had been Jerome."

"If this little chat of yours is any indication, there is nothing for me to worry about. I have no idea where you got that reputation of yours from. Did you buy it from someone who actually earned it?" Okay, is there an actual plan behind all this or is he just pissing this guy off so he blows up his computer for him? How'd Jerome even talk him into sacrificing his desktop computer, anyway? Is he gonna pay Nooch to fix it for him? Will he go completely batflip insane if they can't fix it?

"I can see why you and Jerome are such good friends: you're both big-nosed, immature, cocky little bastards. You think you're so smart… You didn't even bother to clear out your hard drive." Jerome gives a little fist pump and I grin, looking back at Rob expecting to see him doing the same thing. He doesn't look happy for once. Wait, what're these guys up to?

"What are you talking about? I have nothing important on this computer. I have nothing important _period_."

"Really? Maybe you should tell that to blondie over here. He seems pretty happy about the whole thing."

"Are you drunk, bro? Maybe you should stop trying to act cool and just spit it out."

"Is that what you did when you went down on him? Or did you swallow?" I'm totally lost. What the frick is going on here? Mitch looks upset about something, and Jerome looks like he scored the winning touchdown as he cheers with his stupid energy drink in his hand. Rob's face is completely unreadable as he finishes the rubber band ball, looks at it for a second, and immediately starts taking it apart again. Am I the only one who doesn't know what's going on? "You have some pretty interesting pictures on here for someone who has nothing to hide."

"Leave him out of this." This's the closest I've ever heard to Rob actually being angry. I didn't think he _could_ get angry. Is this part of their plan or did something go horribly wrong?

"Touchy, touchy. I wonder what else you have here." Rob lunges at the computer and starts clicking furiously even though he looks completely uninterested. I guess it's a really good thing they took his camera offline – his face would totally blow it. Preston, learn some new words! "Oh, no. You can't delete these. They're mine now."

"Watch me." He's still clicking as fast as he possibly can and I can hear the hacker typing something, probably trying to copy whatever pictures he was talking about. I wonder what Rob could have on his computer that's so important? After a few seconds of concentrated clicking, everything stops. An eerie silence falls over the call and I can't hear anything. I start to wonder if the hacker broke through into our Skype call until Rob leans back and starts snapping his rubber bands again, just like before. His face lights up from the blue screen in front of him and a small chime plays in my ear before everything goes black except for the little square of light from his Mac's screen. He leans over and flips on the light switch, flooding his computer room with light. A bright blue box pops up in the middle of my screen and I have to squint to read the blocky font:

 _Target has been neutralized._

 _Thank you for using Triniti 2.0._

"GG, Woof. Did it take your phone down?" Jerome asks as he unmutes our microphones and Rob just nods with a small smile on his face. Why is he acting like this? What just happened? Before I can open my mouth to say anything, he cuts in.

"Of course it did. It killed everything in sight, so why wouldn't it kill my internet tether? Did you post the video?"

"As soon as you answered the call. You told me you didn't wanna be held hostage."

"I know. I was just making sure. I would rather have everyone hear it from me."

"Hear what from you? What the frick's going on here, Rob?" He turns his chair to face his Mac, his fingers still twisting the stupid rubber bands. He doesn't wanna look at the screen.

"You should go watch my last video. Everything will make more sense."

"Wait… 'Last' as in you're quitting?" He can't be serious. He can't leave YouTube!

"No, of course not. It would take a lot more than one hacker to make me leave YouTube. Just go look at my channel and you will see." I nod and open up a new browser window and search for his channel, scared to see how the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny really ended. He posted a new vlog called 'Before the Rumors Start' and it's only about three and a half minutes long. This can't be good. I click on the video and I see it already capped out at 301+ views with the ratings hidden from the public. Whatever happened here can't be taken back.

"Hey, what's going on guys? It's Woofless here and _welcome_ to another vlog except… this one isn't anywhere cool or exciting! Yeah! Anyway, we are going to be doing something a little different today, and I hope everyone will stick around long enough to hear the whole story." He looks nervous under his usual carefree mask and I can see him playing with the sleeves of his dumb blue sweater right below the bottom of the frame. He recorded this after he started getting jittery. He wasn't all there when he made this video that Jerome posted for him. What were they _thinking_ , letting him be their press agent?

"There have been a lot of really hurtful things said about SetoSorcerer, BajanCanadian, JeromeASF, Skydoesminecraft, and a lot of other amazing people in our community. I am by no means claiming to know what happened with Team Crafted or any of that, and I am not here to point fingers or lay blame on anyone's heads. What happened happened, and I am sure eventually everything will change for the better. But that isn't what I brought you here to talk about.

"As I'm sure all of you know, Jerome and Mitch are two really good friends of mine and we work together a lot, along with the NoochM and PrestonPlayz. I will admit that I don't like how the problems with Team Crafted have been handled on either side, and neither did Preston and Mat. The three of us stepped back from the situation, and we had absolutely nothing to do with SetoSorcerer taking a break from YouTube or any of the other arguments that broke out. But someone dragged us in, anyway. That wasn't the right thing to do. It wasn't the kind thing to do. It wasn't even a _helpful_ thing to do. It was completely unnecessary and all it did was cause more hurt. Mat and Preston now have to pay a ridiculous amount of money to fix their computers, even though they were never involved in the conflict, and what they did to me… no amount of money can fix that.

"I made this video because I wanted all of you to hear it from me first, before they got the chance to try to use it against me. I hope you can understand that this is hard for me to say, and I never wanted it to come out like this. No one should have to spill their secrets all over the internet because someone hacked into their computer and stole their personal information. They… I… There is really no other way to say it. I am bisexual, or pansexual would probably be a little closer to the truth. I like some guys, some girls, and some people who don't see themselves as guys or girls. I just want to love someone, no matter how they identify themselves. I don't want to live in fear of anyone finding this out, and I don't want to act like loving someone is a crime or a sin. It isn't. I just want to be _me_ , and if that means that not everyone will back me up… I would rather not have those false friends.

"Like I said before, I am not here to point fingers or spread hate. I just want all of this to stop – today. The ones who did this know who they are, and I hope they are happy with how their childish little game turned out. I won't let this bring me down, and I don't want it to bring any of you down, either. So that we can make sure that at least one good thing comes out of this, when this video is released, I pledge to donate five hundred dollars to the Trevor Project to fight bullying and intolerance toward the lesbian, gay, bisexual, trangendered, asexual, pansexual, straight, intersex, anyone-one-needs-help community. Together, we won't let acts of cyberbullying like this hurt anyone, even the ones who tried to promote it.

"To end this… I guess it's a vlog? To end this vlog off, I just want to thank each and every one of you for your support and understanding. I hope that we can still be friends and go back to having good times together. I hope this doesn't change your opinion of me or my friends, but if it does, I hope it's for the better. More than anything, I hope that this video can help someone else out there who is trying to cope with bullying or is having a hard time coming to terms with their identity. Don't let anyone else dictate how you live your life: this is _your_ life, not theirs. Thank you again for being the strongest, kindest, loveliest group of people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. You really are amazing. Take care and I will see you next time with something a little less sappy and, hopefully, more exciting. Woofless out!"

When the video fades out and the list of recommended videos shows up, I still can't look away. I can't believe what I just watched, on so many different levels. Is this what Jerome meant when he said beating Rob down was like breaking a glass window with a baseball bat and blaming the window? They might've got into his computer, yeah, but he just saved the BenjandBac's hides and stabbed someone somewhere with a butt ton of broken glass. Okay, not the best way to say that. But someone just lost a load of subs to a guy who's pretty much untouchable now and is losing his ish. It's like being 720-no-scoped in a game of elimination by someone who wasn't even in the same room as the TV. I've never seen anyone pull the martyr act better than Rob the Flower King. But he also just punched himself right in the face. And _hard_. Whose bright idea was this, anyway?

I close the window and turn back to the Skype call. Mitch looks like he's still watching it, and Jerome and Rob are waiting for us to finish. He's still messing with those stupid frickin' rubber bands like he's just having a grand ol' time over there. What were Mitch and the Bac thinking, letting him do this to himself? Well, going by the look on Mitch's face, he must not've known what the other two were up to. And you can't really hold Rob accountable for what he did – I mean, look at him! So Jerome did this. He made Rob skewer and roast himself so he'd have something good to feed Mitch. I don't think I've _ever_ hated anyone as much as I hate him right now. Who in the hell does he think he is?!

"Everyone good now?" Jerome asks as he swivels back and forth in his chair with a smile while Mitch just blinks. Out of everyone here, the Bacca's the last one who deserves to be happy about anything right now. I just wanna punch him right in the face and snap his giant frickin' bird nose in two.

"No! No one's good now except you! How _dare_ you!" The Bacca looks amused and Mitch looks taken aback, like he hadn't expected me to say something. Rob's confused and he finally looks up at the Skype call, his right eyebrow raised. Doesn't he understand what he just did to himself?

" 'How dare I' what? I didn't do anything but set it up. It was Woof's plan from the beginning." Okay, I hadn't expected that, but that still doesn't change much. Rob's not capable of watching out for himself right now, anyone can see that.

"Do you think that matters? Do you really freakin' think that makes a difference?! How could you let him do that to himself?! There must've been a hundred different ways to kill the hacker without throwing Rob under the bus!"

"He chose to jump in front of the fucking bus. If you have a problem with his decisions, talk to _him_ about it. He's sitting right there." I look over at Rob and he's staring back at me, his rubber band ball finally sitting back on the desk.

"Why? Why did you let this happen?"

"I didn't let anything happen, Preston. I _chose_ to do this. It might not have been the only way to solve the problem, but it was the best way."

"How in the hell was this the best way to do anything but kill your channel?! You told me how scared you were to come out! You told me how much it'd hurt your reputation if you did! Why would you-"

"Do you even realize what I did today? Do you know how many problems this solved?" He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, like he can't believe he has to explain the plan to me when everyone intentionally left me out of the loop. "With a three-minute video and a handful of edited, G-rated photos of me and my boyfriend from college, I helped Jerome destroy the hacker, I got positive publicity for my channel by donating to a major social movement, I mutilated someone else's reputation beyond repair, and I saved your ass. Most of all, I don't have to hide anymore. I can finally be free and not worry about people using my sexuality against me. Do you know how hard that is, not being able to be yourself because you are always afraid of what everyone else will think about you? I don't have to deal with that now, or ever again."

"That's all fine and dandy, but you're missing the point! You didn't need to do it! How did you save me?! He was lying!" Rob shakes his head and Jerome facepalms while Mitch just looks on in disbelief. How much of this did they tell him before? Did they just let him mope around and have his pity party and eat himself into oblivion for three days?

"He wasn't lying, P. Paul found the e-mail in your old inbox and forwarded it me," the Bacca says from behind his hand.

"Did I frickin' ask you?! No, I didn't!"

"Preston, please just listen. He _did_ have your address, and it wasn't the one to your apartment, either. He was threatening to post your parents' address online where anyone could get it and hurt your family. I couldn't let that happen." I can't even think. My mind is just blank. I know I look like a complete idiot in the Skype call, but… How didn't I think of that? That account was so old I didn't think the hacker could've got anything important from it. I didn't think it'd hurt anything. That's it: I didn't think. I never do. All of this is my fault. I sat around like an idiot while I forced Rob to knife himself right in the gut so he could save me. And he did. He always does. And I always let him. This's my fault. "Just think about it logically for a second. Which one is more important: one person's career and reputation, or eight people's lives and their home? If worst comes to worst, I can move back home for a little while until this calms down and I can get my views back up. Notch knows it won't be the first time _that_ has happened. My channel is replaceable – your family isn't."

"I know it doesn't look like it right now but it was the best plan we had, Lava P," Jerome adds as he spins his Monster can on his desk.

"So you did have other plans? Why didn't _you_ do something, then?! You told _me_ not to use people?! Well, look who's talkin'!"

"It isn't using someone when they're the one that comes up with the fucking plan!"

"Yeah, like he's in any position to be makin' decisions like that! He's outta his frickin' mind!"

"What is that supposed to mean, Preston?" Rob asks so quietly I almost don't hear him over my own yelling. His arms are crossed and he's glaring at me like I shouldn't be questioning his judgment. I'm so sick of him hurting himself so everyone else can be happy. Why does he hafta be so masochistic all the time? "You don't think I can make my own decisions?"

"Of course you can! Just not when you're acting like you're on speed!"

"You're a dumbass. Him being wired like a fucking roller coaster's just a side effect of him being off his meds. He did what he had to do. He knew what had to be done and he's a team player, unlike you." Rob double facepalms and bends over to hide his face in his hands. Apparently the Bacca wasn't supposed to say anything about that. What else has Rob been trying to hide from me?

"You… You guys let him go off his meds? You risked him getting hurt so you could save Mitch's YouTube channel? What in the hell is _wrong_ with you?!" My voice starts out low but it gets louder with every syllable as I get angrier and angrier. How could they risk their friend's life for their stupid channels?! How could anyone be so pathetic and evil?!

"Jerome, did you…?" It looks like this's news to Mitch, too. Is Jerome the only who doesn't know why Rob's on pills in the first place? Is that why he got away with it for so long? So Rob played all of us, yet again. Where does he get off?! He's just as bad as the Bacca!

"He kinda suggested it, and when I asked him he said he could. What harm did it do?" Jerome replies, finally setting his stupid drink down. It just doesn't sink in with this guy! His priorities are all kinds of screwed up!

"Are you frickin' kidding me?! Of course he said it was fine! It's Rob, for frick's sakes! Would he've told you no?!"

"Preston, I'm right here. Nothing-"

"Shut the frick up, Robert. I don't _even_ wanna hear it from you right now."

"You can't tell me what to do, bro. You aren't my mom."

"Watch me!"

"I wouldn't have done it if Mitch wasn't here with me. I know my limits."

"No, you obviously don't! You don't even know how out of it you are right now! You've been twitching like you're getting electrocuted all day and you just spent like nine hours counting things on your computer screen! Something's wrong here!"

"I feel fine. There is nothing wrong with me."

"Go take your pills, Rob. Now."

"I will when we get done here."

"No. _Now_." He just looks at me with that sarcastic smile on his face as he snorts in disbelief and crosses his legs defiantly to show me he isn't moving from his stupid rolly chair. This guy's gonna drive me crazy, too.

"Rob, you really should-" Mitch tries to say, but he doesn't get to talk, either.

"And _you_! You can't even stop sleeping long enough to keep an eye on him when the Bacca's got him running around without his meds!"

"What are you talking about, dood?"

"Yesterday! I'm talkin' about yesterday after you told me to go to sleep! You went in his room and put your empty frickin' head down on that nasty, smelly foot bed and went the frick to sleep while Jerome's over here tellin' him to jump off a freakin' skyscraper so the bus can run over him easier! Now your career's safe so you suddenly start caring!"

"I wasn't sleeping! I was trying to come up with a plan to save all of our asses once these two found a way to get rid of the hacker! Someone has to fix the damage all of this caused! New subs don't just suddenly appear out of midair!"

"Now ain't that a fresh load of bull honky! I caught you and you won't admit it!"

"I would never _think_ of making him do this! I didn't know any of this was going on! Do you know how many times I have had to watch this guy? Do you have any _idea_ how many trips I have made to his apartment in the middle of the night to see if he's okay? Don't try to tell me that I don't care about him!" He looks like he's having a hard time keeping it together, like the stress of all this's finally getting to him. Okay, maybe I misjudged Mitch a little bit. But I'm still beyond pissed at Jerome.

"And what about you? What's your excuse?" The Bacca just snorts and leans back in his chair like he's still playing his stupid little game and he thinks he's got a better hand than me. I wanna deck him right now and wipe that smirk right off his face. I don't even care anymore – I just wanna make him hurt as much as possible.

"Took you long enough to grow some balls. You were startin' to make me wonder about you."

"Here we go," Mitch mumbles as he shifts in his seat, crossing his legs on his couch to get comfortable. Rob just keeps hiding his face in his hands with his elbows on the desk. Looks like this might take a while.

"Shut the fuck up, Bitchy Mitch. No one asked you," the Bacca responds with the last ounce of his humor.

"That's cute. You're gonna sit there talkin' about _my_ balls when you've been using all of us as meat shields to protect your little empire with Mitch? You even let 'em go after Nooch. Is it ever gonna be enough for you, or are you really so much of a psycho that you don't care about hurting anyone else?!" Okay, now that struck a nerve. He sits up straight in his chair and his eyes are burning and his nostrils are flared. He looks like a bull that's getting ready to charge and he's aimed right at me. If it'd been any other time, I might've regretted saying it. But he deserved it.

"You think I don't care about Rob? Or Mat? Or, God forbid, _you_?"

"You think you _do_?! Funny way of showing it!" Then he goes nuclear.

"Don't you get it?! I never asked for this! I never asked for _any_ of this shit! Do you think I wanted to spend my life like this, playin' watchdog and scaring people shitless all the time?! I hate this! I hate it so much I could just scream and cry and punch a hole right through my fuckin' computer screen! If I had any other choice, I'd make a run for the hills and churn fucking butter for a living and never come back! But I know if I left all the buzzards would descend and destroy everything we've been workin' so hard to build up here! But why do I even bother?! You're fucking selfish!" He points at Mitch. "You're fucking crazy!" He points at Rob. "And you're fucking stupid as shit!" He points at me. His face is so red he looks like he's gonna suffocate in his own rage. Mitch's eyes are wide in horror and Rob just looks resigned, like he hadn't wanted any of this to happen. That idiot's probably blaming himself for all of this right now. Why do I like these people again? "I hate all of you for makin' me into this… this _monster_ , but I love you too much to just leave and let the hyenas get ya! I hate that I love you, and for some sick fuckin' reason I'm willing to sit here and be your guardian and your punching bag and your _stooge_! So don't you dare give me that shit about me being your enemy! If I wasn't on your side and behind you every step of the fuckin' way, you never would've been here in the first place!"

"You never once…! What?" I start talking before the end of his rant sinks in. What's he talking about? He just stares at me with his beady little eyes and huffs, turning away from the computer in disgust.

"God, you're fuckin' stupid. Look at this guy! Is he serious right now? Is he fucking serious?!"

"Preston, I wasn't even the one who asked you to record with me the first time. Don't you remember?" Mitch asks with a trace of an annoyed smile on his face. Great, so now _he's_ turning on me, too! Why can't we all just go back to being mad at the frickin' Bacca?! He's the one who screwed up here!

"Yeah!" Jerome screams, redder than ever as he starts counting things off on his fingers. "When this guy wouldn't touch you with a fifty foot pole, _I'm_ the one who vouched for you and talked him into giving you a fuckin' chance! _I'm_ the one who messaged you and invited you to record with us the first time! _I'm_ the one who made you smooth everything over with Rob so he wouldn't just walk away from all your self-centered bullshit! _I'm_ the one who protected your ass when the war broke out! _I'm_ the one who hired and paid the guys who fixed your computer and reclaimed all your accounts! _I'm_ the one who sits up all night, every night trying to keep people from stealing your footage and ruining your brand! _I'm_ the one you come crawlin' to every time you do something stupid and you need someone to bail your ass out of trouble!

"And I don't even get paid for any of this shit! All I do is get blamed every time something goes to hell! So don't you sit there and tell me how much I don't care about you! I can't stand your ass ninety-nine percent of the time and sometimes I'd like to take a pipe and beat your big, stupid head in, but I'm just about the last person who'd screw you over! You don't know _shit_ about me!" The call falls silent for a while after Jerome stops yelling and he won't even look at the screen. This can't be the same Bacca I know.

"Can we all agree that we made some mistakes this week? We can't sit here fighting about this: that's exactly what they want to happen," Rob says as he plays with the sleeves of his stupid freakin' blue sweater. Why does he always have to be the calm one, even when he's halfway to crazy? Just thinking about that ticks me off all over again. Mitch nods a little and I just look at Jerome, who's pretending no one even said anything. "I made a stupid decision-"

"Like you're capable of makin' any decisions! You haven't slept in three freakin' days, Rob! You're twitchin' like you're on drugs! You can't sit still for more than three seconds without buildin' something and takin' it apart again!"

"Preston, please. I made a stupid decision to stop taking my pills, but it had to be done and I lied about it. A lot. You made some bad decisions, but you didn't know what else to do and you apologized for it." Jerome snorts again and I start to say something but Rob cuts me off. "Mitch tried to do the right thing, but it backfired in his face every single time. Jerome tried to do his job and hold everything together, but he always ends up looking like the bad guy. Everyone screwed up and everyone was wrong, but it all worked out in the end. We need each other now more than ever, so let's just put the past in the past and figure out what we are going to try to do with the future." I can't believe this.

"So you're just gonna let 'em keep walkin' all over you like you're a doormat? Real friends don't do stuff like makin' someone give up their meds." Rob takes a deep breath and puts his senpai face on. It won't work this time.

"This was my plan from the very beginning, so if you want to blame someone, then blame me. I made that decision while I was still on my pills, and I don't regret it. I would do it again if I had the chance. It's my life and my choice. We can get through this, but only if we stop trying to pick each other apart. We have to do this together because we are all we have now."

"We have to stop fighting each other, especially you two," Mitch adds as he moves his finger between me and the Bacca. "Who is the real enemy here? It isn't Jerome, and it sure as hell isn't Rob. If you absolutely have to have someone to point your finger at, Preston, point it at me. Go ahead. I'm standing right here."

"Mitch…" Jerome looks exasperated, like he's watching Team Crafted fall apart all over again. Mitch really _would_ do anything for the Bac.

"Go ahead and pin this whole thing on me. I caused all of this to happen, no matter how you look at it. Come on, I'm waiting. Everyone else is doing it, so why not you, too?" Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Canadians? They do all kinds of stupid bullshrimp, then they sit there and give you big, sad puppy dog eyes so you feel bad about being mad at 'em. Freakin' passive aggressive syrup suckers.

"Can't we just call it a draw and let it go?" Rob asks as he rolls his rubber band ball over and over in his hands.

"Amen, dood." Mitch gives a little smile and Jerome barely nods so you have to squint to even see his head move. "Preston?" I sigh and cover my face with my hands for a few seconds. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"Yeah. I'm in."

* * *

 **June 29, 2012 at 10 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

Something somewhere is making a thumping noise, but I don't care enough to get up to investigate. The noise restarts the roaring fire in my chest and I am wide awake again, like I had just drunk an entire pot of coffee. I pull the blanket up over the top of my head and try to go back to my calm, quiet, formless, dreamless sleep. The pounding continues and I grab a handful of the soft, grey fluff and bunch it up against the side of my head in a weak attempt to stifle the sound. For a moment I think it might have worked, until I hear loud footsteps hurrying across the floor and the front door opening next to the kitchen. I sigh and force my eyes closed, hoping Mitch can handle it, whatever it is. I hear him saying something in the doorway before he shuts the door, his fetid feet stomping across the wood floor. He has to be doing this on purpose.

"Hey, Rob." I ignore him and pretend to still be sleeping, even though the idea of sleep is completely ludicrous at this point – I feel like I will never have to sleep again. "Hey, Rob. Hey, _Rob_. Hey, Rob." He can make fun of me as much as he wants; I am determined to go back to sleep. I hear him snort and walk away in defeat, the sound of him rustling around in the kitchen again echoing throughout the apartment.

'Does he ever give it a rest?' I sigh and close my eyes again, hoping against all odds that I can somehow go back to that peaceful nothingness. Not even a minute passes before I feel the blanket being lifted up off of my head, and I look up, expecting to see Mitch eating his second breakfast of the day. Instead, Mom is standing there, her kissy lips only centimeters away from my face. I jump and instinctively pull away, hiding my face in the corner of the couch to escape from her trademark glower and her vanilla perfume. She pulls away and I can hear her huff behind me.

"Now is that any way to greet your mother?" I peek over at her with a smile and she rolls her eyes before she pulls my feet off of the couch and sits down next to me, her arms crossed. "You really _are_ Darren's son. To think I used to have my doubts." The guys must be getting a laugh out of this. I slowly sit up and put the blanket to the side, running my hand through my messy hair while I yawn. She watches me with her head tilted to the side, a spark of amusement dancing in her eyes.

"What are you doing here? I thought you had to work today."

"That's one of the best things about being the boss – not that you would know anything about that, Robbie." I glance over at the Skype call and, of course, Jerome is grinning like a gremlin and Preston is doubled over in laughter. I hesitate for a second before I unmute the call, wondering if this is a good idea.

"Mornin', Mama Woof. How've you been?" Jerome acts like such a charmer when the 'adults' are around, and everyone's parents adore him. If only they could hear him behind the scenes, with his cursing and his threats. It seems like four years on the debate team taught him how to argue _and_ act.

"I'm just fine, Jerome. How are you, honey?"

"Life's good. I can't complain." Mom catches me rolling my eyes at him and she turns and glares at the side of my head, silently scolding me for picking on my friend.

"Behave yourself, Robbie, or I will call your dad."

"I was always more afraid of you, anyway. Dad would just laugh and give me a dollar so I wouldn't tell on him."

"Why does that not surprise me? Aren't you going to introduce me to your new friend?" She beckons to the computer screen and I can see Preston flush pink, his hand automatically moving up to fix his hair.

"Oh, right. You have already met Mitchell and Jerome, and this is Preston. All four of us work together on YouTube with Mathew."

" _Enchantée_ , Preston. I am so sorry that my son has absolutely no manners whatsoever. He gets that from his father." As always, she has to be the stereotypical troll mom and humiliate me in front of everyone I have ever met and ever will meet. I love her to death, but she gets too much practice messing with me. If it's even possible, Preston turns even redder than me.

'It's too bad Darryl doesn't have a sense of humor; he could lighten the load a bit.'

"Huh? Oh, no! He's the nicest guy I've ever worked with! Rob's awesome!" Preston rambles to Mom's delight as she reaches over to try to fix my bed head, her fingers pulling at the stubborn curl that always stands up on the left side.

"That isn't saying much for the rest of you." I can hear Mitch cackling in the kitchen as he watches us over the mini wall next to the fridge. He looks exhausted – he must have stayed up all night so he could make sure that I actually slept. I feel like such a burden. "Where are you from, Preston? It sounds like… the western States?"

"I'm from Texas, ma'am."

'Now he's laying it on thick, too. At this rate, she will want to adopt all three of them and burn me out of all of her pictures.'

"Really? I flew down to Austin a couple of years ago for a business conference. It was definitely a change of pace – too hot for my taste, though. Thank you, Mitchell." I look up to see him carrying in three cups of coffee, and Mom turns to stare at the side of my head when he sets the cups down. "Once again, I'm sorry my son has no manners. Go help him, Robbie. He isn't your maid." I really don't want to leave her alone with the other two in a Skype call, but her mom glare always makes me feel guilty.

"Do you want me to get you anything else?" I ask as I stand up, and she just keeps looking at me with her right eyebrow raised.

"I would really like a million dollars and a beer, but something tells me I won't get either one." We grin at each other and I shake my head as I walk over to the kitchen to help Mitch do whatever he has been trying to do. If he keeps this up, she will be asking him to marry me – he is a better host than the rest of my family put together.

"You did this to me. I know you did," I say, pointing at him accusingly as he puts his hands up in surrender, an empty paper plate in his hand.

"She called when I had your phone at the grocery store. I wasn't going to hang up on your mom and cause another world war." He digs a small box of cupcakes with blue frosting out of a plastic bag on the counter and starts putting them on the paper plates, his usual smirk glued in place.

'Mitch is a better brother to me than my actual flesh-and-blood brother. Maybe that's why Mom is so enamored with him.' I grab the plates and carry them into the living room, laughing when her eyes widen in mock surprise.

"He actually got you to do something? Wow, that's a first." Mitch walks in a few seconds later with two small gift bags and a huge brown box, setting them down on the coffee table behind my Mac. I go back to my seat next to her and I see that Preston is picking at a banana split and Jerome is munching on another little bag of Fritos. They were obviously in on this, too. I was wondering what they were doing while I was asleep. Mitch starts eating the frosting off of his cupcake before his ass ever reaches the armchair, his fingers carefully peeling the wrapper off of the bottom like a crime scene investigator trying to preserve a vital piece of evidence. Mom leans over and grabs one of the bags before she lunges over and kisses me on the cheek before I can move away. "Happy birthday, Robbie."

"You guys really didn't have to do any of this."

"Just shut up and open it." She pushes it closer to me and I can feel my face heating up as I pull the tissue paper out.

'How can I have so many amazing people in my life?' The first thing I notice is a preorder card for Assassin's Creed III with Dad's hieroglyphic handwriting along the top, his loopy scrawls trying very hard to wish me a happy birthday.

"He wanted to drive up for the weekend, but the firm needed him to sit around and count pennies instead. You don't know how glad I am that you didn't sell your soul to Scrooge Corp. like him."

"I will call him tonight when he gets home. Speaking of which, I should really go get another cell phone today."

"What did you do to your other one?" she asks, her eyebrows raised expectantly as she peers over her dark purple glasses at me.

"I really don't think you want to know," Mitch snickers as he picks the remaining crumbs off of the inside of his wrapper, his cupcake nowhere in sight.

"I probably don't. My hair is white enough already. What else is there?" She points down at the bag with the beginnings of a little grin on her face, and I start wondering if this is something I should be opening in front of my friends. I look down in the bag and see that, whatever it is, it's wrapped meticulously with dark blue tissue paper. I glance over at her and she doesn't look particularly evil. I pull the squishy, blue lump out of the bag and carefully unwrap it away from the camera, remembering the screaming book she had bought Dad for his birthday two years ago that had nearly caused him to have a heart attack. The dark blue, galaxy print hoodie unrolls on my lap and I immediately lean over and throw my arms around her. As always, she sees right through me like I am made out of glass.

"Thank you so much. You are absolutely amazing."

"Aww," Mitch coos, reaching over to my side of the table and grabbing my cupcake. Even Mom rolls her eyes at his ridiculousness this time.

"For my little astronaut."

" _Mom_ , stop."

"Robert Aaron Latsky, don't you get smart with me! I get to be cheesy for three days a year, and this is one of them. But I'm glad you like it, sweetie. You are so picky with your clothes." She hands me the other bag, and Mitch and Jerome both start smirking. I warily pull the staple out of the top of the bag and look inside before I take anything out, knowing that I am physically and virtually surrounded by trolls. The first thing I see is a three-pack of blue, 'new car' scented air freshener trees, and Mom immediately covers her mouth to keep herself from laughing.

"You know, Mitch… This might actually be the best gift anyone has ever given me. I don't think you bought enough, though." I rip open the top wrapper and a wave of cool, strong air flows out of the package. I take a big breath of it and promptly throw the little tree over at Mitch. He flinches when it lands on his lap, then he grabs it and hangs it on his left earring.

"We got you something else," he laughs while he adjusts his new accessory, the blue cardboard twirling as he devours the poor cupcake. I look back in the bag and see a little yellow Post-It note stuck to the bottom, with the letters 'IOU' written in huge, sloppy black letters, like he had traced it over and over again with a ballpoint pen. "We can stop and pick it up when we deliver Mat's computer parts in a couple of days. He had to have the motherboard shipped to the store, and you live a he- a heck of a lot closer to it than he does." I laugh at Mitch's lame attempt at censorship and Jerome bobs his head up and down, apparently in on the plan.

"You really don't have to get me anything. These," I hold up the air fresheners, "were the only thing I wanted."

"Oh, give it up, Robbie. Let people be nice to you for a day. Open this one so we can get on with our lives," Mom sighs up at the ceiling as she grabs for the large, brown box. "Neither of us know what this is – it was sitting outside your door when I got here."

"What?" Jerome says, his dark eyes narrowing in suspicion while Preston just looks confused.

"Oooooh," Mitch all but whispers, his eyes wide as he realizes what had happened. He and I look at each other in shock, his lips frozen in a little O shape.

"That's a real bright idea, Benj. Bringin' strangers' big packets in Rob's apartment without him knowing," the Bacca rants, facepalming in exasperation while he tries to keep the humor light.

'He doesn't want Mom to know what has been going on. There could be _anything_ in that box, and it could be from anyone. Did someone manage to track down Mitch and send him something disturbing, or possibly harmful?'

"Should we open it?" I ask as I carefully set the box back down on the table, examining the sides of the package and the label for anything suspicious.

"Why wouldn't you open it? It says it came from Amazon," Mom laughs lightly, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. She knows something is up, but the very last thing I want right now is for her to get hurt.

"What do you think, Jerome?" I ask and I can already tell that his answer is no, just by looking at him.

"Robbie, what is going on here? Are you in some kind of trouble?" She looks concerned now, like she thinks I might be involved in drug trafficking, or that I might be building explosives in my walk-in closet.

"Wait a minute. I know what that is. Was the shipping date yesterday?" Preston asks with his head cocked to the side, and everyone turns to look at him questioningly.

"Yeah, it shipped yesterday from the warehouse downtown. Did you send this?" He nods and turns bright red, stretching his arms behind his head and pretending to yawn so we can't see his face as well.

"Well, now that we know it prob'ly isn't a dead cat, you've gotta open it. I wanna see what Pressy got you." Mom gets her troll grin back again and she flutters her eyelashes at me teasingly, and I just huff and look away.

'Now I have both her and Jerome pestering me about me liking Preston. I was hoping this day would never come.' I carefully open the box, peeling away the layers of stringy brown packing tape, wishing Mitch would allow me to touch sharp objects; this would be so much easier with a butcher knife. After almost two minutes of awkward struggling, I finally manage to get the top of the box open. There is something big and fluffy made out of soft black and white fabric, a small yellow foot poking out at the bottom of the box. My mouth recognizes it before my brain does.

"Oh my God. It's Günter." Jerome squints at the screen for a few seconds before he makes a pouty face, looking personally affronted that I had gotten a giant stuffed penguin but he hadn't. Mom looks completely lost and glances at me before looking over at Mitch and the computer screen to see if someone would give her a hint about what was going on. Mitch has his lips clamped together, trying not to burst out laughing, and Preston has his face buried in his arms on the table in his hotel room, his deathly red forehead barely visible over his forearm. Even I have never seen him blush so hard.

"I don't get it. It's a what?" Mom asks as I pull the giant penguin out of the box, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion as she runs her hand over its soft, white belly.

"It's Günter the penguin. He's a character from one of the TV shows we watch. He's the servant of the crazy Ice King in Adventure Time," I explain as I watch Preston curl in on himself more and more with every word. I can feel my own face getting hot now and Mitch cackles as he gets to his feet and walks over to the kitchen. I can barely hear him opening the cupcake box again over Jerome's snickering. "Thank you, Preston. He's amazing." Preston just moans and doesn't move from his spot, and Mom starts giggling, her hand rubbing little circles on my back.

'This is going to turn into a very, very awkward conversation later, I can already tell.'

* * *

 **June 29, 2012 at 2 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

I pull the rolling suitcase out of my trunk and lock my car, checking around the parking lot to see if there're any freakin' weirdos hanging around outside like there were at Mitch's apartment. I don't see anyone, but I put my keys between my fingers anyways. I hold my car key with my thumb like a switchblade, knowing my hunting knife is folded up in my right pocket just in case I need it. I speed walk over to the stairs and run up to the third floor as fast as I can with my bag bumping behind me, praying there won't be some creep waiting up here around the corner for me and that the door's still closed and locked. I peek around the corner and no one's sitting up here. The door's still shut. I lean the suitcase up against the wall next to the door and I pull the knife out of my pocket, ready to go COD-style as soon as I open the front door. I open it an inch and listen for a second before I kick it open, scanning around to see if anyone's here. The alarm starts screaming and I duck in to turn it off before I look around a second time. Still nothing.

"Well that's a relief." I turn around and drag my suitcase inside and lean it against the closet before I pull the door shut behind me. I carefully fold the knife back up and put it in my pocket again with my keys. It's gonna be a while before I can put this baby back in the junk drawer. I turn the corner into the living room when the smell hits me. It hits me like a semi truck. "Holy frick. What the crap is _that_?" I grab for the knife again, but as soon as I look in the room I know what it is: it's my freakin' pizza. I can see the green spots from here, and I didn't order it with peppers on it. I pinch my nose shut and walk over to the kitchen, grabbing the trash sack out of the can and holding my breath so I can shove the nasty, spotted thing in. I tie it shut and hurry over to the front door and lock the bottom lock on my way out so no one can get in while I get rid of the body. It smells like a rotten corpse! This must be what it smells like to live in the Walking Dead world. This freakin' sucks. I wish I had some of Rob's air fresheners right now.

Crap. I don't wanna think about Rob. Just thinking his name makes me glow red like I'm on fire and it's complete bullshrimp. I'm not even looking at him or talking to him and he still makes me feel like I'm actually a lava mob. I need to get a grip and get over it. I can't like a guy, period. Even a really nice guy. Even if he's handsome. And gay. Because I'm not. So it wouldn't work. Besides, my family would literally skin me alive if they even found out I might like a guy. I admit it now, okay? There's no point lying to myself about it. But there's no reason to ever talk about it, either. I'm never gonna say anything. I'm just gonna let it sit and stew and rot and maybe someday I won't even feel it anymore. What else can I do? I'm not allowed to love a man, so I won't. I'll just be his favorite other-brother because it sounds like his real brother sucks. He didn't even bother to call him on his birthday or anything, and his mom didn't mention him. I don't even remember what his name was. Jerkwad.

Okay, seriously Preston. Stop, dude. No really. Stahp. Just plant this pizza bomb at checkpoint B and get back home so you can call cable to fix your internet and get back online, then Mitch can get some sleep while you keep an eye on Rob-the-twenty-seven-year-old-ultra-hyper-kid-who-still-acts-like-he's-on-speed. Then you can order a good pizza without the mold and fumes. Oh, crap. I left the rest of _this_ pizza in the fridge. Now I hafta come all the way back down here when it's over a hundred degrees outside. This frickin' sucks!

"Thanks a lot, Rob." I need to stop thinking about him. For real this time. It's only been like half an hour and I already miss his dumb derp face. This is really bad.


	23. Chapter 23

**August 30, 2012 at 5 PM, Seattle, Washington: Preston**

I grab another handful of t-shirts and toss them over in what I think used to be the shirt box. I don't even know anymore. It's been a _long_ two days at this table. I walk over and start rolling up the stack of unsigned posters so I can slide them back in the tube and I hear Vincenzio huff at me and stomp over to the t-shirt box. I look behind me and he's lifting the box up on the table and taking all the shirts back out, folding every single one in a perfect little square and sorting them by size like a complete pleb. What does he think this is? Freaking Walmart?

"You havin' fun over there?" He turns and looks at me while his hands keep moving, slow blinking at me like it's gonna make me feel bad. He's just one of those people where everything they do is funny, even when it's not supposed to be.

"I'm having the time of my freaking life, G."

"Great! I found some more!"

"Oh my lanta, Preston! Stop!" I chuck a big, mixed up pile of wrinkly black shirts at him and his eyes widen in horror as he tries to catch them all. He glares at me as he sets the ball of shirts down on the table, scrunching his eyebrows together and putting his hands on his hips like he's someone's mom. This guy, though. "Are there any other little surprises I should know about before I get my hopes up?" I look around and grab the stack of signed posters and pretend to throw those at him, too. He has that deer in the headlights look in his eyes and his mouth is open so far he looks like Kermit the Frog. "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

"Chillax, dude. I wouldn't actually throw the posters like a mad cow. Jeebus!" He just stares at me accusingly like he doesn't believe that. He's too much freakin' fun to mess with. And I thought Rob was high stress! He's chillin' like a villain compared to Vince! Even after a day and a half of teasing him and pulling his leg, it still isn't getting old. I can't wait to troll him on COD and DOTA – at this rate, a couple rounds of try-hard elimination against me on Black Ops will make him crap himself.

"Something tells me the cake is a lie."

"I told you, we can't talk about the cake."

"But… The cake…"

"Dad gommit, Vince! Don't talk about the frickin' cake!" He chuckles and starts untangling the big ball of t-shirts, jumping into action when one of them almost falls on the floor. He's got some lightning reflexes. That's how you can tell a gamer from a non-gamer: gamers live like they're Neo in the freakin' Matrix and non-gamers are just like 'Mom! It broke!' That's pleb status right there: breaking stuff and throwing away perfectly good food just because you're not a ninja.

I uncork the other poster tube and slide the signed posters in and drag the pile of lanyards and keychains and miscellaneous junk in a little box before he can have another heart attack and start sorting through those, too. I wanna get outta here before the convention hall opens again tomorrow morning. He's so concentrated on the shirts it's like he forgot I'm even here. I grab the giant cardboard lava mob Minecraft head from the opening ceremony and slip it over my head and I creep over behind him, slowly peeking over his shoulder so I can jump scare him. After a few seconds of him not noticing me, I start hissing like a Creeper and his eyes get huge and he jumps and shrieks like an old man. I'd almost feel bad if I wasn't laughing so hard. This guy's a riot!

"Preston! What did I ever do to you?" he whines as he pretends to brush himself off, his cheeks turning pink in embarrassment as he tries not to smile. He goes and stands on the other side of the table to finish folding the shirts so he can watch me better.

"Everyone knows you don't turn your back on a lava mob. Didn't your mama teach ya nothin'?" I shake my fist at him in mock anger before I slide the giant cube head off and set it on top of the table next to the boxes of merch.

As much of this stuff as we've got left for the last day of the convention, I already sold like ten times more. Mitch was right: I should've ordered a couple extra cases. I can't imagine how much stuff him and the Bacca sold – they're so popular they got a giant booth together in a completely different section of the convention hall from me, Rob, and Nooch. I wonder if they met up with that Vikkstar guy Mitch keeps going on and on about. You'd think he was gonna marry him, as much as he talks about him. I hafta look him up on YouTube tonight in case he's here. The last thing I need is a repeat of the whole 'Mysterious MrWoofless' fiasco where I tick off someone who's three times my size. I really don't wanna give the Bac a massive nosebleed just when he acts like he's starting to like me. I start grabbing all my signing supplies and I throw everything in the smallest empty box I can find, hoping I won't somehow lose it again and hafta run across the aisle to Rob's table to beg for some pens and see his dumb 'I told you so' derp smile. He gets on my frickin' nerves sometimes.

"My mama don't know nothin' 'bout no lava mobs, P Dawg. When I tell her I met one in Washington, she'll probably think you're a figment of my imagination, or something out of a video game. She doesn't think I'm a gangster," he says, making an angry pouty face at the end. Like he could be anything but a character out of a Disney movie. "Actually, I'm not sure if she knows that I'm not still down in the basement. I should probably call her tonight…" I try not to laugh because I can't tell if he's being serious or not, but I can't help it. I'm a stickler for self-deprecating humor.

"Your mom doesn't know you're hundreds of miles away at a gaming convention?"

"I don't know. I left her a note on my door but she might not have seen it. She's so used to me disappearing in my computer room for days at a time that she just doesn't question it anymore. Wow. That sounded better in my head." He looks up at me and starts laughing at the look on my face. I know exactly what he means. I go over and start helping him sort through the last little heap of shirts, holding up one of each size while he watches me warily like I'm gonna try to sucker punch him in the side of the head. When he said he had a little social anxiety, I guess he wasn't kidding. Maybe I should stop scaring him every fifteen minutes. That can't be helping the problem. I finally find an extra-large and ball it up, backing up and acting like I'm gonna throw a football to him.

"Here." He catches it right before it hits him in the face and he just looks down at it and back up at me with his head tilted a little to the side. "Now you have proof to show her you actually left the house so she won't think you're _completely_ crazy."

"You don't have to do that. I like helping you."

"No, take it. I give all my friends t-shirts. Besides, I want one of yours after you hit it big on the Tubez." His face lights up with the cheesiest smile and he carefully folds his shirt and sets it to the side next to his bottle of bright red pop. He still doesn't seem convinced about the whole YouTube thing, but I swear I'm gonna make him actually think about it. He'd be so good at making videos, and it'd help him out in so many ways.

"Thank you."

"Pfft."

"No, really. Thank you. You are one of the nicest, funniest, most optimistic people I've ever met, I'm serious. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"Don't be gettin' all sappy on me, dude. It's just a t-shirt." He grins and bobs his head as he starts folding shirts again, and I go over and tuck the flaps of the other boxes in so they won't come open when we try to pick 'em up.

" 'Just a t-shirt' my butt. Can't even take a compliment."

"Nope! None of that! I get enough condiments from Rob and those things don't taste good!"

"I bet you do," he laughs as he finishes up the shirts and starts putting them all in a big stack, turning every other size horizontally so they won't get mixed together again. When he finally folds the flaps of the box down, he lets out a sigh of relief and pretends to wipe sweat off his forehead like a dork.

"Onwards!" I bellow as I stick the poster rolls under my arm and stack up the smaller boxes with the cardboard head on top, and his jaw drops in mock disbelief, like he can't believe I'm making him move my crap. I kick him in the butt and he leans over and picks up the shirt box, eyeing his stuff as we walk away.

"Come on, you nerds. Let's get this over with."

"Hey, don't you talk to our people that way! All us nerds have gotta stick together!" We start carrying everything over to the storage room down the row of tables and behind the curtains. The security guard looks up from his paperback book and points us into the room, like there's anywhere else to go. Vince sets the big box down on the floor to the right of Rob's and Nooch's piles and I put all of my boxes and poster tubes on top of it. "Can you hold these for a second?" I hand him the top three boxes of Nooch's stack with the Clockwerk head on top and I move the rest of his stuff away from the wall, replacing it with Rob's teetering mountain of little boxes and turning it so Rob's neat handwriting is back against the wall where no one'll see it. I shove Nooch's stuff where Rob's used to be and take the little stack of boxes back from my grinning comrade, placing them back on top of Nooch's hoard. To finish off our little prank, I switch the blocky Minecraft heads on top so it looks like nothing ever happened.

"Aren't their booths at opposite ends of the room?"

"Yep. They shouldn't've been plebs and left an hour ago. What'd they think would happen?" I dust my hands off and we walk back out of the storage area, thanking the guard who's still glaring at us for interrupting his giant war novel. We walk back over to the table so Vince can grab his stuff and we head out through the maze of booths, passing the most popular Tubers' spots on our way out. We both turn to stare at the huge, empty black booth two down from Mitch-and-Jerome's red and black checkered one.

"He really didn't show, huh? I thought that was just a rumor on Twitter," he says as he finishes the rest of his rank black cherry Fresca. I don't get how he can drink so much of that nasty stuff. It's like air to him.

"It's probably a good thing he cancelled. Can you imagine how sucky that would've been, him sitting like ten feet away from the BenjandBac? I can smell the awkwardness already, and I'm not even talkin' about Mitch's feet." He smiles weakly and tosses his pop bottle in a recycling can, our eyes scanning SkyDoesMinecraft's empty booth as we walk by.

After the Great War of 2012 went down last month, I guess it wasn't _that_ big of a surprise he didn't come. When everyone realized they couldn't keep pointing fingers at Mitch for everything bad that was happening online because someone'd hacked him, they started trying to find out who had been behind the whole thing. And all the arrows pointed to Dawn, and soon all the hate did, too. According to one of Jerome's ninja hackers, Dawn swiped a chunk of cash from Sky's bank account and used it to hire LeetFire to take some of the other big YouTubers out, including Mitch and the Bacca. I guess she thought she and Sky would get more subs if there was no one else to sub to. When he found what she did, they had a huge fight and she walked out and called off their _engagement_. Out of everyone involved, there's no doubt that Sky lost the most. Subs can be replaced pretty easily but love is harder to come by. I don't blame him for not wanting to show his face at a big convention so soon, especially when two of his ex-fiancée's biggest targets would be within speaking distance of him for three days.

"Is YouTube always that stressful?" Vince asks with his eyebrows bunched up in concern like he's afraid to even ask. Is he really thinking about starting his own channel? It'd be freakin' awesome to have someone else to record COD and other non-Minecraft games with. Kenny's too lazy to get his butt outta bed half the time. Like Mitch keeps saying, we need to start building up our own community far away from the smoking ashes of Team Crafted, and Mr. Vincenzio seems like a pretty good place to start. The guy's so freakin' honest he helped me sell merch for two days without getting paid, and he didn't steal a single red cent of the money. He just walked up the first morning and started talking to me about games and life and epicness, and when I offered to let him chill with me he geeked out like he'd just won the lottery. You might think I was taking advantage of him, but he's free to leave if he wants and we're both having such a blast it's like we're at Six Flags.

"Naw. Not for me, at least. Besides that whole hacker thing last month, I've never had any problems with anyone. The comment trolling isn't even as bad as some people claim it is. It's harder to come up with good video titles than it is to work with other Tubers. It's the best job in the whole frickin' world, I'm tellin' ya." He nods down at the floor and digs his wallet out of his pocket while he walks, stopping to buy more grody Frescas out of the vending machine by the front doors. He catches me watching him and shrugs.

"Hey, my hotel doesn't sell these. I have to grab some while I'm here." I grin and lean against the doorway while I wait for him to get his dumb pop, thinking about how I could persuade him to join the team.

"So you're really thinking about it, then?" I ask as I check my phone to see if anyone's texted me. Nothing yet. He sighs and bends over to pick up his fourth bottle of red liquid of the day, then he fishes around in his pocket for another quarter.

"I don't know. I really, really want to, but…"

"But?"

"I'm not a people person like you. I can't do the whole meeting-people-at-conventions thing. And let's be honest: I don't have the most exciting stories, either. My life's nothing special. I live in my mom's unfinished basement with a plastic coat rack that I hang all my clothes on. I don't even have a pet. Nobody wants to see that, including me and my mom. There's a reason she doesn't question my comings and goings and activities down in the depths: she's too afraid to look down into the pit I call a bedroom." A snort of laughter escapes me and he gives me a sad smile before he goes back to feeding the vending machine.

"You don't hafta do anything you don't wanna do, and you can leave out anything you don't want people to know about. Everyone does that. The Lord knows you'd save an epic butt ton of money on travel costs and hotel rooms and taxis and food by not going to expos and meet-ups. Plus, you wouldn't hafta spend money on a hi-def webcam if you aren't gonna do facecam. All you need is a hard drive with like a terabyte of memory, a good microphone, some sound foam, and some decent editing software. If you can hit up 5K subs, I could even help you get an ad sponsorship with Ironside Computers. It's the best feeling in the world, waking up every morning and knowing that you get to hang out with your friends and play video games for a living. You should give it a shot." The bottle of orange pop falls down to the little plastic tray and he just stares at it, thinking.

"Yeah, but-"

"Just try it. Just for a month or two. If you don't like it, Amazon has a ninety-day return policy and you can send everything back and I'll pay you back for the software. It'll be like nothing ever happened. Even if it doesn't work out like you wanted it to, at least you can say you tried it and you can scratch it off your bucket list."

"How am I supposed to record videos for hundreds of people if I can barely handle having a three-way Skype call with my extended family at Christmastime?"

"Pretend you're talking to me. That's all you hafta do. You turned into a freakin' chatterbox the second they kicked all the fans outta here, and even after closing time this place still has a lot more people in it than your house would." He smiles at that and bends over to pick up his two bottles of pop, his new t-shirt tucked under his arm.

"You really want me to do this, don't you?"

"Of course I do! You'd be an awesome YouTuber!"

"What's the catch?" he asks, watching me sideways as we walk down the front steps of the convention center towards the parking garage.

"Well, you hafta do at least the first video with me. I wanna be able to brag and say I was the first one you collabed with when you get your gold plaque."

"Aww… How could I say no to that face?" He reaches over and pinches my cheek, his eyes widening in uncertainty when I glare back at him. I pretend to try to bite him and laugh when he pulls his hand away at the speed of light.

"You're such a pleblord!"

"OMG, IRL OH-KO. MLG pro, bro!"

"GG, dude. G frickin' G."

"I'm a poet and I don't even know it. Or a rapper," he chuckles, pretending to punch me in the arm when we reach his part of the parking area. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"If you're up for another day of hard labor. But don't tell Rob: he'll try to take your job."

"Gotcha. Ciao for now, P." Vince waves as he walks down the huge aisle of empty cars, his curly, feathery hair flying around in the warm breeze. I turn and start walking towards the main road while I pull my sunglasses off of the neck of my shirt and slide them on. It's just like a ten minute walk to our hotel and it's pretty nice outside, so why waste money on a smelly taxi?

Besides, I wanna see what they have around here for food other than that stupid chicken place the Bacca's obsessed with. The guys haven't called or texted me about going out to dinner yet, so I'll just hold off until we can come up with something. There's a Starbucks like right next to the convention hall, though… It's calling my name. Maybe I'll hit it up before I head back to the room and hafta fight Nooch for the last bottle of free water again. I swear, his screen name shoulda been 'Spongeboob No-Pants.' Why'd the BenjandBac get to room with the Husky Mudflapper while I get stuck with Admiral Chug-a-Lug and the Rob-a-Dob-Flob? Not that I really mind _him_ , though. Dangit, Preston…

Rob or no Rob, I can't complain. Life's been great since the war ended, for me at least. I got a few scrapes from Rob's coming out video and I lost a couple thousand subs, but everything's back to normal for me now. Between my two channels and all the merch I've sold at PAX so far, I'm doing pretty good moneywise. I'm gonna head home and pay off that freakin' credit card so it won't be looming over my head anymore and I'll put the rest of the cash back until November rolls around. With the holidays and all the end-of-the-year game releases coming up, I'm gonna need every cent I can scrounge up or I'll end up eating ramen and cans of Spam like Rob.

Fudging Rob. I still can't believe he ate plain canned tuna for two days before Mitch showed up to stay with him. He didn't even have any mayonnaise! I've never met a more stubborn man in my whole freakin' life, and that includes Daka. Rob would rather eat clearanced out pleb food than ask anyone to loan him a couple bucks until payday. I'm kinda worried about that, though. If he was barely making it before, what's it gonna be like now that he lost like twenty thousand subs from coming out? He doesn't tell anyone ish like this. I wouldn't even know it hit him that hard if I didn't keep tabs on his account without him knowing about it. He acts like everything's fine, but it's pretty clear it isn't fine. It's like playing freakin' Sherlock Holmes with that guy! If he keeps it up, I'm gonna end up on some kind of happy pills, too. All plebiness aside, at least he's back to normal now and he isn't twitching and counting blocks like he just found the meaning of life. That was scary as hell and I could go the rest of my life without ever seeing him lose it like that again.

And then there's the BenjandBac. Mitch finally found a house to rent and he moved out of Rob's place like a week or two ago after they went and got all of his junk from his old apartment. Someone stole his flat-screen TV and his dead computer, but they were nice enough to lock the door behind them after they filled his toilet and sinks with sun-dried dog crap. I think Mitch got a bigger laugh out of it than whoever did it, and even the Bacca seemed impressed. I'm still surprised he didn't turn it into a vlog or take a selfie with it. They got his car fixed and bailed it out, too, so it's like nothing ever happened if you ignore the huge net loss of subs on their channels. Even then, Jerome and Mitch were never bottom-feeders to begin with – I feel like a newspaper boy with a couple bucks in my pocket compared to them. I guess it's a good thing that I can coast along on Benja's coattails while he sets up his Team Crafted 2.0. Hopefully it'll work out better the second time around. Watch, Nooch'll be the next one coming up with conspiracy theories and master plans. All he needs is a gallon of chocolate milk and a tin foil hat and he'll be halfway there already. Heh. I crack myself up sometimes.

I finally make it to the Starbucks and I slide my sunglasses off as I open the door, pleading that fate'll be kind and there won't be a massive line from here to Sweden. Nope. Looks like I'll be meeting Pewdiepie today. I take my place in the great circle of life at the end of the little green rope thing and I pull out my phone, trying to decide whether or not I should ask the Flob-a-Dob-Knob and the Nooch Bot if they want coffees. Just as I'm about to start texting them, I hear something hard hit the floor right behind me and I turn to see what it was. The girl who'd walked in right behind me just dropped her phone on the tile floor and she's staring down at it with that horrified look people get when they're convinced they just cracked their screen. I bend down and pick it for her, and she looks at me like she's surprised I have any manners. Come on, my mama raised me better than that!

"Thanks," she says with a small smile as I hold it out to her, and she takes it and checks the screen real quick before she stuffs it back in her purse. She turns and looks back at me, brushing her long brown hair behind her ear as she blushes. She's one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen – even Keeley'd be jealous of her, and she's a mirror-aholic.

"No problem, Hannah." Her sky blue eyes widen in shock and I laugh at the look on her face while I point down at her wrist. "It was on your bracelet."

"Oh. Yeah," she giggles nervously and her face turns bright pink while she messes with her hair again. We stand next to each other in silence for a few seconds, waiting for the lady in the business suit at the front of the line to stop bossing the barristas around. "You know my name, so what's yours?"

"Preston." I hold out my hand and she takes it gently, laughing at the silliness of the whole thing. Her skin is so soft and warm and her perfume smells even sweeter than the coffee syrups. Everything about her is pretty.

"Nice to meet you, Preston."

"So… Do you come here often?"

* * *

 **August 30, 2012 at 7 PM, Seattle, Washington: Rob**

"Two at towers, two at towers."

"Got one. Is the other one still there?" I lower the gun and run forward to the stone pillar, listening for gunshots or footsteps from the courtyard.

"Yeah, he's heading for left stairs. Don't peek it – stay by the statue and we can trap him at crossroads."

"Roger." The room falls silent while Nooch and I wait for the last enemy player to reappear, our final victim in this round of elimination. I don't know where our last teammate disappeared to; maybe he got tired of being the third wheel and went to camp in a corner for a free win. It was for the best: knowing Mat, he probably would have killed the poor guy if he got in the way of our plan. I crouch next to the crumbling statue and watch for movement inside of the dilapidated building. Thirty seconds pass and I consider moving closer to the doorway just before Nooch starts clicking furiously, his laptop bouncing precariously on his lap. Suddenly, he throws his hands up in the air, bobbing his head with a big, shitty grin on his face.

"Boo-yah, bitches! Lag and all! Now _that_ is what I call a duster! Who fucking camps under the stairs in elimination?" he jeers, picking up his bottle of complementary water and draining it dry while we wait to be transported back to the lobby screen.

"What about our guy, eh? He disappeared into the shadows three minutes ago, never to be seen again." Nooch shrugs as he swallows his mouthful of water, chucking the empty bottle over onto Preston's couch bed for him to find later.

"He probably heard the gunfire and got scared. See, Robbie? This is why I always say not to play COD on weekends – all the fucking casuals are lying around with a Red Bull in one hand and a triple cheeseburger in the other, watching us raise their win-loss ratio."

"Brutal, man. Absolutely brutal."

"Is there another way to play, oh peaceful Flower King? Bigfoot plays better than these idiots!"

"He should start his own YouTube channel."

"That's what I've been telling him!" The door pops as someone unlocks it with their keycard, and we turn and watch Preston wander into the room, his eyes wide in suspicion at our stares and our silence. He turns his head and looks behind him before meeting our gazes, nodding uncertainly when we don't say anything.

"It took you long enough to answer our texts. Where have you been all afternoon?" I ask as he shuts the door behind him and slides the keycard back into his new green Creeper wallet.

"You'll never guess."

"The convention center," Mat answers while he shuts his laptop and puts it beside him on his loot-covered bed. Preston glares at him and kicks his shoes off in the corner, throwing his black PAX lanyard down on the little table next to the door. "No? The bathroom? Wait, I know! You found the secret sewers!"

"No. _I_ met a girl." Mat starts clapping sarcastically and I have to fight to keep a straight face at the look of ennui on Preston's face.

"GG, dood. There are only a few billion of those on the planet. We're so proud of you for finally leaving your room."

"Yeah, boy!" I cheer and Preston looks at me with his Grumpy Cat face, as if that would convince me to try to shut Mat up. The only person with that power is Jerome.

"Is she made out of plastic, or cardboard?"

"She's real. Her name's Hannah and I met her at a coffee shop."

"W-ow. I hate to break it to you, Einstein, but girls drink coffee, too," Mat says slowly, dragging out every syllable as if he was talking to a small child.

"Shut the fudge up, Nooch. No one asked you, anyways."

"Pics or it didn't happen, man," I joke, causing him to cross his arms and tilt his head downward to look at me, trying to intimidate me into silence. Preston is probably the least threatening person I know.

"Here's a question for you: how long did you talk to her? Was it longer than fifteen seconds, or did she just take your drink order and peace?" Nooch cackles, and Preston runs over and starts smacking him in the face with one of the many scratchy decorative pillows we had thrown on the floor.

"Didn't I tell you to shut the frick up?!"

" _Never_!"

"You two are going to get us kicked out of here," I laugh as I set Procyon on the bedside table as far away from Preston as possible, carefully closing the screen while I watch them wrestle pathetically amid Mat's piles of goodies from the convention.

"Sorry, Dad," Preston sighs as he throws the ugly tan pillow at Mat's head and walks over to my bed, flopping down almost on top of me. How does he think this is going to work, with two grown men trying to squeeze onto my twin-sized bed? He scoots closer to me and presses his arm against mine, adjusting himself so he won't fall off of the bed.

" _Excusez-moi, monsieur_. Last time I checked, your couch was over there."

"Yeah, but the couch sucks even more than you, so…" I make a hurt face at him and Nooch snickers, still fondling the starchy pillow and waiting for his chance to strike.

"Can you two turn the Poofless down until we make it to the restaurant? They have a bathroom over there that you can use to settle your differences." Preston sits forward and peers past me, glaring daggers at Mat and his trademark Joker grin. If I hadn't been sitting between them, they would still be trying to suffocate each other with the toss pillows.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Nooch, but you have fun with that," Preston replies as his ears turn bright pink, whether from embarrassment or rage, I can't tell.

"Oh ho ho! Don't turn this around on me! How else would you know how well Rob sucks?"

"Okay, why are you dragging _me_ into this? I didn't try to smother you," I counter, watching Preston turn steadily redder with each passing second. Nooch looks away from Preston's scowl and grins at me, like he knows something he shouldn't.

"I can't drag your Perston into anything without dragging you into it, too. You two are stuck together like glue."

"We are not!" Preston shouts as he straightens his back and sits crosslegged right next to me, his knee halfway on my lap. Mat just raises his eyebrows and blinks at him.

"Can you not see yourselves right now? If you were any closer together, you would be writhing around and moaning each other's names."

"Can't two people be friends without you fantasizing about them getting it on, Nooch?" I ask, and Preston laughs. Mat finally stops fingering his pillow. He looks over at us, his eyes switching between our faces like he is trying to find something that had always been there but had suddenly disappeared.

"Wait, you can't be serious. Poofless isn't real?" Preston snorts and grabs my half empty bottle of water from the table and chugs the rest of it down, much to Mat's amusement.

"No way, man. I just babysit this thing," I reply, poking Preston in the ribs and causing him to punch me gently in the shoulder while he peels the wrapper off of the empty bottle.

"Hey! I'm not a _thing_!"

"How is Poofless not real? Nah, you're just fucking with me," Mat laughs while we look at him, his face twisting up in confusion when we don't laugh with him. "Wait, so you _are_ being serious?"

"We aren't dating, Mat."

"Why would I go out with this fudging pleb over here? He even forgets to eat half the time."

"Yeah, like you're one to talk."

"Okay, time out for a second and stop bickering like an old married couple. You two seriously aren't dating? How the fuck did _that_ happen?"

"It just did, okay? Why're you so worried about it?"

'Why is Preston getting so defensive? Does the idea of people shipping us together bother him that much, or is it just because Nooch said it?'

"Why wouldn't I be worried about it? Poofless is the sweetest fucking thing since Merome, and everyone knows how sugary _that_ is. We've got ships for days, boys."

"Mat, is there anything you _don't_ ship?" I ask, trying to change the subject before Preston starts turning purple; he has already gone past any identifiable shade of red.

"Pooch would never happen, for obvious reasons. Everything else seems like fair game."

"What the frick is a 'Pooch?' "

"You and Nooch," I answer and Preston holds his stomach and pretends to throw up next to the bed. It would have been hilarious if he hadn't accidentally grabbed my wrist on the way back up and caused me to flinch – I can't stand it when people touch my scars.

"Sorry," Preston mutters, looking down at my hands in my lap and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"Don't worry about it."

"Poofless! Poofless! Poofless!" Mat chants, cupping his mouth with one hand while he fist pumps with the other.

"This isn't a hockey game, bro. No one is going to score if you cheer."

"We can't give up hope yet! There's still plenty of time on the clock for you to score a couple of goals. I've seen you checking him out – Woofless wants a piece of that chocolate lava cake." I can feel my face burning like the surface of the sun and Preston facepalms so hard next to me that I briefly wonder if it will leave a bruise. "And here I thought you two were being nice and sharing a room with me because I'm broke as shit. You were just asking for my matchmaking services. I accept your challenge, MrWoofless." I can't tell if he is being an irredeemable troll or if he is actually convinced that Preston and I would work out.

'He has to be teasing us. Mat is the least serious person I have ever known.'

"Rob, if you say one single freaking word, I swear I'll kill you in your sleep."

"That's not very nice, Preston. Kiss your boyfriend and make up." Mat leans across the little gap between the beds and starts pushing the top half of me closer to Preston, and I can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

'What did you expect from a Nooch?'

"Come on, kiss him!"

"Oh my God. _No_!" Preston hops off of the bed and scurries into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Nooch settles back onto his bed and slips his shoes on, grinning like a maniac.

"He really likes you, Rob."

"Let's not talk about that, yeah?"

"He is just in denial. He'll come around eventually. You two are too cute together not to be a thing. Poofless _will_ be real, mark my words." I just shake my head and cover my face with my hands, trying to get rid of that horrible blush. Mat snickers and I can hear him digging around for something on his bed before he walks over to the bathroom door and starts knocking on it incessantly until Preston yells at him. "Come on, Pressy Wessy. Robbie Dobby wants us to go on a dinner date."

"Oh, so this is turning into Poochless now?"

"Do you want it to?" He grins and continues pounding on the door until Preston finally opens it, his bangs and shirt soaked from him washing his face over and over again. "Let's go get some food with the guys before your boyfriend tries to eat your face off in the elevator." With that, Nooch turns on his heel and marches out of the hotel room, holding the door open as he waits for us to get our shoes. Preston won't even look at me the whole way to the other guys' room, and Nooch keeps glancing over at me like he is expecting something magical to happen.

'So Preston might actually have feelings for me, even though both of us know that it would never work out. That's unfortunate.'

* * *

 **August 31, 2012 at 1 AM, Seattle, Washington: Preston**

Freakin' Nooch and his freakin' plots to get me to go on a freakin' date with freakin' Rob. Look, I have nothing against Rob and I never will, but there's no way in the seven Nethers I'm gonna go out with him. He's nice and he's smart and he's fun to be around and he's handsome and kind and… and a bunch of other things, but it's never gonna happen. There're just so many reasons _not_ to let it happen. And as soon as I started to persuade myself that it didn't matter and that maybe it was just a bro-crush all along, here comes Nooch with his stupid evil grin and his stupid curly hair and his stupid wolf eyes ranting on and on about how it's time for us to kiss. No, it's not time for us to kiss! It's time for you to die, motherclucker! He had to go and drag all that trash right back up to the surface just when I couldn't smell it anymore, and it really ticks me off. Yeah, I might've thought about Rob as more than just a friend for a little while, but it's not like that anymore.

That's all in the past now. I met Hannah today and she seems to like me, and I'd rather have that one percent chance that she'll wanna be my long-distance girlfriend when we meet again for coffee tomorrow than just sit around for another year wondering if I like Rob or not (even when it doesn't mean anything if I do). I could actually build something with Hannah while all I'd have is a lot of anger and worry and confusion with Rob.

But the fact that I like her at all kinda solves that problem, huh? I can't be gay if I like girls, and now I like a girl. I can't like Rob if I'm not gay. I must've been wrong about that the whole time. There's nothing wrong with other guys liking guys, or with girls liking girls, but _I_ can't like guys. I'm not like that, and I'd be screwed if I was because I probably wouldn't have a family or anyone else in my life left except the one guy and some of my online friends. And if Rob was the guy I was dating and I fudged up our relationship, I wouldn't even have my best friend anymore. It's just not worth it. But it doesn't matter, anyways, because I obviously never liked him in the first place. I'm not gay.

Rob can find a nice guy to settle down with and have kids with and do whatever else he wants to do with, and I'll fall in love with Hannah or another girl I meet and find my own happiness. We'll still be best friends no matter what and our kids can be friends and play games with each other online to continue our legacy, and we'll just be one big, huge, happy extended family. Rob's my brother, _not_ my boyfriend, and that's all he'll ever be so I need to just forget that any of that crush stuff ever happened. I was wrong and I was confused and I was scared and tired from the whole hacker thing. My brain was really screwed up when I had that dream, and I haven't had it ever since everything went back to normal.

Nooch lets out a big snort that makes me jump and he turns over for the thousandth time and keeps sleeping. I hear Rob sigh over on his bed by the door and he reaches over and grabs his phone and headphones off the nightstand. The little screen lights up under his blanket tent and he looks he's scrolling through Twitter for a while before the light shuts back off and he lays still and pretends to be asleep. It looks like he's not gonna sleep again tonight. It must be nice, not having to worry about what your mind's gonna make you dream about. I wish I never had to sleep. Freaking Nooch.


	24. Chapter 24

**September 9, 2012 at 5 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

When Preston said he had met a girl, he wasn't joking. I guess some deluded part of me was hoping that he was kidding around and trying to get Mat to stop being a smartass. I didn't think much of it at the time and I shouldn't be thinking about it now, but I can't make myself stop. The thought of him being with her really irks me, like he had walked up and slapped me in the face so he could make her laugh. It hurts like hell to see him smiling with his arm around her, and to see all of the favorites, retweets, and comments on their first photo together. She seems nice and they look happy together, but something keeps telling me that she will never really love him; I have enough experience with that to last a lifetime. Out of everyone I know, Preston is the one who deserves this happiness the most, so why would I wish that happiness away from him? Why do I wish that he had never met her? It was such a stupid coincidence, him walking into the coffee shop at the same time as her, and him not having his headphones in for once so he could hear her drop her phone. How could everything have worked out so perfectly for her? On the other hand, we all know that long-distance relationships don't last, especially ones with someone you randomly met at a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon. They barely know each other.

I have no right to be angry or bitter about this, and jealousy isn't becoming on anyone. The fact that I am envious of her at all is just pathetic. I knew that I never had a chance with him and that we would never work out. I need to let this go before it eats me alive and makes me even more soulless than I already am. Preston is my best friend and he will never want us to be anything more than that, regardless of what happens with this Hannah girl. He is even willing to pay to fly up to Canada to see her every few months, even though he has never flown up to see me or any of his other friends after we have known him for two years. Knowing Preston the hopeless romantic, he will end up marrying her in a year or two and he will ask me to be his best man, unwittingly adding insult to injury. If he asked me… I don't know if I could do it. As hard as I try not to feel anything for him, all I have managed to do is make the problem worse. I can't deny it: I love him. I love him, and the only thing in the world that I want is for him to love me back, but now she has taken away any chance I ever had of that happening. Maybe him finding her was for the best because it will keep me from doing something stupid. I would be better off suffering in silence than trying to push myself on him.

'What makes you think that he would want you in the first place? You saw how he reacted with Mat – he screamed and ran away.'

'Mat was teasing him and he lost his temper. How else was he supposed to react?'

'Well, the truth would have been a good start.' I sigh and scroll through his Twitter feed, refreshing to see if he had tweeted anything new, but he hadn't. He had been spending much less time on his phone and Twitter since he had met her, and even our Skype calls are shorter than they used to be; he leaves shortly after we finish recording. I know he has someone else he is recording with and he has his new girlfriend to talk to, but why is he ignoring me like this? This is the first time since we met that we have gone more than three days without talking to each other. I would be perfectly happy if our friendship went back to how it was a month ago, even if he had Hannah the Heartthrob on the other line. 'I just want my best friend back.'

'Who am I kidding? He was never just my best friend. I had feelings for him from the very beginning, even before we officially started working together. Why do I always have to be such an idiot?'

'Isn't that what Dar asked when he was thirteen, when Mom grounded him for the first time in his life? At least someone was honest enough to point out the truth.'

'Everything negative about me was Darryl's 'truth.' If Preston and I drift apart like Dar and I did, will he always come back to haunt me, too?' The thought of losing Preston rips my heart apart, as if him disappearing from my life one day would be the same thing as him dying. I would actually mourn if I never saw him again.

'He would be much better off if he walked away, especially now that you have nothing left to offer him. You barely have more subscribers than him now and he actually makes more money than you do. You have nothing left that he wants; all you can do is bring him down and stress him out. If he turned around and walked away, you would be the one dying, not him.'

'He wouldn't just leave, would he? He wouldn't just use me and throw me aside when there was nothing left to take. The hacker situation proved that to all of us.'

'That was before Nooch cut open your chest and rubbed your feelings in Preston's face like wet dog shit. Why would he want to spend unnecessary time with you after two days of putting up with that? Every conversation you have with him is awkward, even during recordings. Why would he go looking for drama when he could avoid you and not have to deal with it at all?'

'Is he trying to avoid me, or is he just too busy to spend as much time with me as he used to?'

'Why not both? Why spend time with you when he could spend time with someone he actually likes?' I sigh and glance over at the clock and see that it is 5:51 AM. I pull my phone out and put it on my desk in front of my keyboard, waiting for Dad to call me before he goes to work. I need to put on a show long enough to make it through the phone call, then I can text Mom, take my pills, and crash until it gets dark out again. My life has become very simple since I flew back home from PAX: I record and edit videos, and I sleep. Nothing else matters anymore. I suppose that's a good thing; I don't have to worry about not having money for food when I'm not even hungry.

'We were so close… but now we are so far apart. What did I do to make him push me away like this?' I look back at my monitors and watch another small hoard of zombies stumble toward me in the cobblestone hallway of the EXP grinder, not even blinking when they tumble off of the ledge and into the block of lava below, one by one until all of them have disappeared.

'If only it was that easy. If only I was that brave.' I look down at my arms and examine the flawed, intersecting lines on my skin that I have to wear every day like a scarlet letter, the marks now a permanent reminder of my repeated failures. The second line down from my wrist on my right arm is still crooked even after all of the times I have tried to fix it.

'As usual, Rob-a-Dob-Flob can't even have one job.' I have cut into that spot so many times that I can't even feel the pain anymore. Maybe if this low drops a little lower, I can convince myself to try to fix it again. No one would notice such a small cut, even if the scar tissue thickened again. It would only be two or three centimeters long and it would be healed by the time I had face-to-face contact with anyone who knew about the problem. However, that would mean going to the store to buy paper stitches, rubbing alcohol, and bandages, and I don't even have the energy to go downstairs to get the mail in the lobby of my apartment building. It would be pointless to try to fix a broken vase without any glue.

'Why can't I snap out of this? As awful as it is to admit it, I have been jealous of other people's partners before, but it has never affected me or hurt me this much. I have to let him go. He would be happier with her.'

'You mean he would be 'happy' with her. He could only be miserable with you. Look at yourself – you can't even make yourself happy. Like Mom used to say: you have to love yourself before you can love someone else. You can't even stand looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror.' I check the time again and see that it is now 5:56 AM. Time drags by so slowly when you have nothing to look forward to. All I have coming up is the family get-togethers around the holidays that I doubt I will attend, and PAX South in March if I can even afford to go. Hopefully Mitch can put his new business plans into action before I end up out on the streets again, or worse, on Mom's couch.

'No one deserves to have to put up with my shit. They do so much for me already, and I give them nothing in return. I am a twenty-seven-year-old child, making messes everywhere and throwing temper tantrums. Even my friends have to babysit me.' I watch a zombie with an enchanted chainmail chestplate amble toward me, oblivious to the lava void below. It falls, its green, pixelated head moving upward to stare morbidly at me as it falls. I watch it hit the boiling lava and I imagine the soft hissing noise its body would make while it grunted, its health slowly ticking away as it sunk into the chamber below, waiting for me to climb down the ladder to slaughter it and its accomplices. Just as the poor monster disappears into the holding pit under the lava, my phone vibrates and Dad's typical troll face pops up on the screen. I let it ring a couple of times while I collect myself and force myself to smile, then I answer it.

* * *

 **September 10, 2012 at 4 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

Talk about a boring day. I open up Skype to see if anyone's online to record with or even just talk to. It looks like everyone's still got their lazy butts in bed. Well, not everyone. I know Mitch, Jerome, and Nooch are supposed to be in class right now and Hannah is at work, so I can't talk to any of them. Kenny's just lazy and he's definitely still in bed. I don't know Vikk well enough to bug him like that. And Vince sleeps in the afternoons because he works the night shift stocking stuff at some video game store in California. I scan the rest of my list and… Wait, Rob isn't on my first page of contacts anymore.

"When did _that_ happen?" I scroll to see if he's even in my contacts at all, and he's like a third of the way down the second page under Caleb and Landon's avatars. How long's it been since I talked to him? I click on his profile page and check the call records. Our last call was on the fifth. We haven't seen or talked to each other in five days now. I check my sticky notes for recording times and we don't have any time scheduled to record together, not even next week. I look back up at the PAX group photo of everyone he has as his avatar and I hesitate for a few seconds before I click on it to call him. This is gonna be all kinds of awkward but I can't ignore him forever. I wait and wait and wait for him to pick up, but the call eventually cancels itself. He's usually awake by now and he's always online all day so he can hear it go off, so why didn't he pick up? Is he mad at me? I dig my phone outta my pocket and check our texts – nothing since the fourth, and that was just him saying goodbye when I went to make myself dinner. I open a new message and start typing:

 _Me: Knock knock, anyone home?_

I go check Twitter and Facebook and the comments on my YouTube channels, and it's almost five o'clock when I look at my phone again. He still hasn't answered. He's always awake by now, so what's going on? I check his accounts real quick and he's been uploading videos but that's about it. The last non-video-related post was from the day after PAX when he got back home and the only tweets he replied to were about when videos would be uploaded. It's like Rob disappeared but MrWoofless is still here. What the fudge is going on? I try to Skype him again but there's still no answer. I try calling his cell phone and it just goes straight to voicemail without ringing. I call his house phone and it rings and rings and rings…

"Come on, dude. Pick up the freakin' phone. Please pick up." It just keeps ringing and every ring makes it harder and harder to breathe. Where is he? Is he home? Is he okay? When was the last time he talked to anyone? Was I the last person he talked to? When did he record today's videos and how long have they been scheduled? Did he hurt himself again? Is he in the hospital? Is he _dead_?

That just stops me right in my tracks and I hang up the phone when the call finally goes to his answering machine. Is Rob dead? Was he having problems again and I didn't even know about it? I should've known, I should've been there to talk to him about it and help him. What kind of friend am I, forgetting to talk to him for days on end? That's just it: a friend wouldn't do that. Are we still friends? He didn't try to talk to me, either. So he really _is_ mad at me. Well, if he's still okay and he isn't dead or MIA or something, there had to be something I can do to patch things up with him. Was it something I did?

"Of course it was! How stupid can you be?" He's mad about how I acted at PAX after Nooch started trying to play wedding planner. I know it wasn't his fault and he tried to tell Nooch to stop, but the whole thing just really, really pissed me off and I ignored both of them for most of the rest of the trip. I was still mad at them when I got home and I guess I spaced out asking Rob to record again after we did that Battledome with the BenjandBac, Nooch, and that Vikkstar guy. And since he wasn't on my calendar… I forgot to call him. I literally forgot that my best friend existed. Can I do anything but screw things up?

But what if he really _is_ dead? What if he took a knife and started cutting his arms open five days ago but no one's talked to him and he was still posting videos so no one noticed? What if his body's been sitting in his apartment for five days and no one's found him yet? What if he wanted to talk to me but he was too afraid to call me because he thought I was still mad at him, even though it was a really stupid thing to be mad about in the first place? If he's dead, I killed him. What would I do if I killed my best friend? What do you say when you just walk away from someone you know you can't just walk away from? This is the guy I had to nag every day so he'd take his pills on time, and I just slammed the door in his face and left him on his own for like a week because of a stupid joke. What the hell is wrong with me?!

I click on Skype again and try to call him one last time before I get ahold of Mitch to ask him to go check on him. I'd rather have a big misunderstanding than a dead Rob. The call rings and rings and rings…And he finally picks up. The webcam's on even though it looks like he didn't want it to be – his hair's really messy and it's so wet I can see it dripping down on his blue t-shirt. He has a big wad of toilet paper in his hand that he's pressing against the right side of his jaw, and there's a huge spot of blood soaked through it from where he'd already tried to make it stop bleeding. And he really doesn't look happy.

"Yeah?"

"Hi."

"Hi." He sounds really sarcastic and he peels the paper away from his face, cringing as it sticks to his cut. He looks down at the giant dark red spot on the toilet paper and I watch as another trail of blood immediately starts streaming down his face like a thick, pulsing river. Is this what it looked like when he used to cut his arms? "Shit."

"Sorry, I didn't know you were busy."

"Why did you think I wasn't picking up?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It's… it's been a while."

"I know." We sit in silence for a minute while he waits for the bleeding to stop, hissing in pain as he peels it off of his skin again and causes another stream of blood to gush out. "I'll be back in a minute. This is just turning into a giant mess." I don't know if he's talking about his cut or the Skype call, but I definitely agree. He turns the light on and I watch him walk down the hall to the bathroom in his tight black boxer briefs, and he comes back wearing shorts with a whole roll of toilet paper and a wet black rag.

"Sorry I bothered you. I was worried about you 'cause I hadn't talked to you in a while. If you want, I'll go and leave you alone."

"No. No, it's fine. I just haven't been having a very good week, and this hurts like hell on ice skates."

"What happened?"

"The house phone went off and it scared me, so my hand slipped when I was shaving and I cut a fucking mole. It feels like someone just rammed a toothpick through my face." He makes a really pathetic face as he peels another wad of toilet paper away, and he rolls his eyes when he sees it's still oozing blood as fast as ever. He folds the rag up and holds it up against his cheek, leaning his jaw on his hand like he always does to put pressure on it. Us sitting here looking at each other might not seem like much but I'd rather have a ticked off Rob than no Rob at all. "Thank God for facial hair – this is going to leave one hell of a scar."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault. It was bound to happen sometime. You should see my great-uncle Benny's face: he looks like he made out with a shark." I try to fight back my laughter but it breaks through, anyways, and he smiles a little even though it makes him flinch. "You always laugh at my pain."

"Because your pain is freaking hilarious." He raises his eyebrows and we just sit there and look at each other for a minute. "I'm sorry."

"I was the one who derped. What are _you_ sorry for?"

"Not talking to you in forever. And the whole thing with Nooch." He snorts and brushes his wet, curly hair off his forehead.

"Don't blame yourself for what Nooch does. You can barely blame _Nooch_ for what Nooch does." I start chuckling again and he looks at himself on his screen and runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up in the front like a total dork. Is this how he always fixes his hair? Like a complete pleb? "And I can take care of myself. You don't have to worry about me so much."

"I know you can. But everyone needs someone to watch out for 'em and help 'em out every now and then. You've got me and I've got you."

"That doesn't sound like a fair deal to you." He looks so sad when he says it, like he's convinced I don't care about him. Okay, no. Nooch can be whatever kind of jag admiral he wants – this weird, crazy, gangly, nerdy freaking Canadian derp face is my bro and I wouldn't just abandon him over a couple really bad jokes. I'm gonna make it up to him. Somehow.

"Naw, dawg. I get the better end of the deal. I do a lot more stupid stuff than you and you always save my butt anyways."

"Everyone wants a piece of that Perston booty, eh?" Even though it's still kinda awkward between us, the face he makes is hilarious. I start laughing at him and he laughs at me laughing at him, and I laugh even harder when he yelps like a dog and pulls the rag away from his face. "Why is that funny? You are so cruel to me."

"Not my fault you're a drama queen." Crap. That's a line that didn't need to be crossed again. Me and my massive freakin' mouth…

"Bro, if I'm the drama queen, what the hell is Mitch? Is he the drama dictator?"

"Naw! He's the dic-tater-tot!" That broke open the dam and now I'm laughing so hard I'm crying and I can feel the hiccups coming, and he's sitting there with that dumb troll grin on his face while he tries to clean up the bloody mess that ran all the way down his face and his neck. Watch, he'll start whining like a little kid when he finds out it stained his precious blue t-shirt.

"Now he's turning into poutine. Fair enough. I guess I should tell him that I found his ketchup." He looks at his face on his screen and his eyes widen in annoyance. "This is stupid. No, this is _actually_ stupid." He holds the black rag back up against his cheek and I see the side of his face is bright red and starting to swell up. Even though it really sucks that he's bleeding to death and he's gonna look like a chipmunk, it's great to talk to him again. I never realized how much I'd miss this guy until he just disappeared for almost a week. That's why I've felt so bored and alone the last few days: the BenjandBac and Kenny and Vince and Hannah are all awesome, but none of them get me like Rob does. He knows exactly what to do and say and he can make me feel better even when I feel like complete crap. I seriously don't know what I'd do without his dumb derpy face.


	25. Chapter 25

**November 10, 2012 at 11 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Naw, dude. If you're gonna pay over two hundred bucks for a microphone, you should at least grab a couple sheets of sound foam. What's the point of buying a high def mic when you're just gonna be echoing all over the place?" Jeez this guy's a cheapskate! Vince's willing to dish out all kinds of money for some gaming mouse he claims is the freakin' bomb, but he won't shell out forty bucks for four giant sheets of acoustic foam that'll last forever? Now that's what we call a plebian, ladies and gentlemen.

"It's a pretty small room, though, and I covered the floor with rugs. It shouldn't be that bad."

"Did you cover the walls with rugs, too? How about the ceiling?" I can hear him do a little chuckle-sigh and I'd bet five bucks he's rubbing his temples again like his head's gonna split open. "Just grab some. It's el cheapo."

"Yes, boss. No lunch for me again this week."

"No pain, no stain, no gain. You know the rules. Besides, you don't hafta buy it _now_. You said you weren't ready to start your channel yet so what's the hurry?"

"About that…"

"Yes? Don't make me hafta con-Vince you again." Even after like fifty times, that joke's still hilarious. And Jerome thinks he's the funny one. Funny lookin' maybe.

"Nah, G. I was just wondering if… you'd mind me giving it a try before I actually made a channel? You know, to get the feel of it before I make a giant fool out of myself?" Oh, so _that's_ what he's been so worried about all week. He was trying to come up with a way to ask me if he could record with me. I thought he was having a nervous breakdown from his job or something.

"Sure. I'm down whenever you are. You wanna use 'Vincenzio' or are you gonna make a new account?"

"I… I think I'll keep that username for now, but I want to change it before I start my own channel. I really don't… Ireallydon'twantanyonetofindmypersonalaccounts."

"Huh?"

"I don't want to use my old usernames or my real name on YouTube. I don't want anyone to find my personal accounts and get into my photos and stuff like that. I want YouTube to be its own thing over here, and everything else can be over there somewhere. I wanna keep it on the down-low, yo." He's really serious about this anonymous no-facecam, no-convention thing isn't he? Why's he so scared of people seeing him? Is he afraid someone's gonna go nutso on him like they did when the hacker went after Mitch? I mean, I guess it's not too crazy to be scared of hooded weirdos tryin' to beat you down in front of your house like they're playing Assassin's Creed. Him hiding behind his screen isn't gonna help him in the views department, though. He might just be making everything much harder for himself.

"If that's what you wanna do. So what am I supposed to call you?" He hesitates for a few seconds. Is he gonna have this much trouble when we start recording, or is he just trying to tell me some deep, dark secret? Looks like we're gonna be doing a butt ton of practice recordings until he gets the hang of it and we can start posting stuff. But who can blame him? We all hafta start somewhere, and I definitely remember the feeling of not having a single freakin' clue what I was doing. Who am I kidding? I still have those moments. Just ask my senpai and the Bacca.

"Okay, so try not to laugh too much. You know how you said most of yours and Mitch's subs aren't in the main gaming scene? I was thinking of toning the gangsta-ness down a little and going for something more… parent-friendly, I guess?"

"Mr. Goody-Goody over here. Sounds like you're gonna pull a Rob on me."

"Oh no, Kappa. I'm still gonna have my job until I can make it by without the paycheck." He pauses and waits for me to stop laughing and I can hear him chugging on a can of Fresca to calm his nerves. He taps his empty can down on the desk a couple times and I hear it _clang_ against a bunch of other empty cans when he throws it in his special little pop trash can. That thing's gotta be like a biohazard container. How can anyone live in the same room as that nasty pop, let alone chug it like Vince does? Is this guy human? "Are you ready to hear the story of the Almighty Kweh?"

"Plz bby. I very fan."

"Okay, here goes." He pauses and takes a deep breath before he starts. "There was once a little boy who loved to spend every day at the playground. Morning, afternoon, evening, it didn't matter. Any time was perfect. He would wait all day for his mother to take him to the park so he could zoom down the fire pole and tumble from the monkey bars like it ain't nobody's business. But his favorite thing of all was the swing. He loved it so much, he even dreamed about it. The swing set was so big the top bar was as tall as the house next to the park, and the air made his eyes tear up when he rocketed up to the very top. Everyone else was too scared to try it because they were afraid they'd fall off and break their legs, and so were their parents. But the little boy didn't care. He could zoom through the sky like a superhero and soar freely like a bird; he could feel the wind in his hair and the weightlessness of the empty air; he could feel _alive_ like only a child with an overactive imagination can. At long last, he could fly.

"One day at school, the scariest thing imaginable happened to the little boy: he couldn't breathe. He choked and he sputtered and he cried and he heaved, but nothing helped. The teachers didn't know what to do. The last thing he saw was the nurse running towards him with a wheelchair, then everything went black. He woke up a couple hours later in the emergency room with a big clear bag strapped over his face and his mother sitting in a chair next to his bed, squeezing his hand and crying her eyes out. He'd had breathing problems in the past, but never like this; he had never stopped breathing before. It turned out that the boy had developed acute asthma and he'd had a bad attack after he'd inhaled one of the teachers' perfumes. After that, he had to have regular breathing treatments and use an emergency inhaler, but no matter what the doctors did, it seemed like the attacks got worse and happened more often. Unfortunately, even the fear of not being able to breathe couldn't compare to the fear of going back to school the day after an attack. To keep him from repeating second grade from all the missed school days and to put an end to all the bullying from his classmates, the little boy's mother took him out of public school and decided to homeschool him. She just wanted to keep him safe.

"Even though this solved a lot of his social and health problems, it led to a lot of new problems, too. His mother had to work two jobs with full days every week to make ends meet and keep their house, so the little boy spent a lot of time alone at home. He couldn't go outside or have friends over to visit in case a scent or a game caused an attack, so he got very lonely. To make the long hours pass more quickly, his mother bought him an old Nintendo Entertainment System on eBay and it came with an epic ton of classic games, including the original Final Fantasy series.

"Even though he couldn't run or climb or swing like he used to, now he could live vicariously through the strong, brave, loveable heroes in the games. He could be anyone and do anything, and nothing could stop him. But his favorite character wasn't really much of a character at all: he loved the Chocobos. He could jump on good ol' Choco the Chocobo and he could take him on an adventure anywhere: running through forests, jumping over rivers, climbing up mountains, flying over canyons, fighting in wars, you name it. Finally, the little boy could fly again."

We sit in silence for a few seconds as his story sinks in and he waits for my reaction. I guess he's never told anyone this before. Is that why he hates to leave the house? Is he still afraid he's gonna have a major asthma attack, or did he grow out of it like Sam did? Even if he did, spending all that time by himself must've made it hard for him to be around people again. He _did_ say that he drove himself all the way from Los Angeles to Seattle and back with a trunk full of Fresca so he wouldn't hafta get on a plane, but I guess it didn't click until now how much he hates being around people. Maybe that's why he always got to the convention hall super early at PAX – he wanted to go to all the demos and booths before it got too busy. Then he'd run over and hide at the back of my booth all day, being my cashier and sorting through all the merch to find the stuff people wanted while I signed everything and took pictures. He'd have someone to talk to away from everyone else. If he hadn't met me, would he've just spent like an hour a day at the convention center and gone back to his hotel room until the next day? How can anyone live like that?

"You should be a writer or something. You're breakin' my heart over here, dude." I can hear him let out the breath he'd been holding and he chuckles a little. I can't believe he got so worked up over telling me that story. What'd he think I was gonna do? Hang up on him? Tease him? Record him and post it online? I might be a cactus, but I'm not a jerkwad. Knowing that he'd basically been a shut-in for like ten years, though… If I'd spent more than half my life in a dark basement room all by myself, I'd probably have a hard time talking to people, too. Seriously, who can blame the guy?

"I used to write. A _lot_. I wanted to write scripts for video games after I finished college."

"Why didn't you do it?"

"I tried it. I really did. It was just too much for me to handle. There were too many people in one room and I'd start having a panic attack whenever the professor called on me to answer a question. I couldn't stand seeing so many people staring at me and waiting for me to screw up. I forced myself to finish the first semester, but by then I was sitting in the back of the room by myself in every class. Everyone thought I was insane."

"They have those online universities. Couldn't you do that?"

"Most of those are scams, and the legit ones really, _really_ expensive. I don't have the money to do that right now."

"Well, that's where the YouTubez come in. I bet you could do it if you got a couple hundred thousand subs."

"Pfft. Like that'll ever happen."

"You never know, Chocobro."

"Oh God. Is that gonna be a thing now?"

"What? 'Chocobro'? I could use 'Choco-late' if you like that better."

"Okay, we're seriously gonna have to work on that, P. I might be a lot of things, but I ain't no 'Choco-late'."

"So what're you gonna use? I'm pretty sure the name 'Chocobo' is already taken, especially if you're still thinking about gettin' into Minecraft, too."

"I'll probably try 'Choco the Chocobo'. He was the big, fluffy pet I always wanted but could never have. That bird was my childhood."

"That works. So for now I shall call thee 'Choco.' Until I can come up with a better nickname."

"Why does it feel like this is the beginning of the end for me?" he asks with a nervous laugh while I launch Modern Warfare 3 and get ready to kick some more noob butts with this… bird? Huh. Who knew I'd go to a convention and meet a giant yellow bird who plays video games? Maybe I should call him 'Big Bird.'

"Naw, dude. There's never an end in video games – now you're playing the sequel."

* * *

 **November 12, 2012 at 3 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"You got some 'splainin' to do, Lava P." I'm not sure why he's calling me or where he got his intel from, but the Bacca doesn't look too happy. Great, what'd I fudge up this time?

"Sure. What's up my main Bacca-Lacca?" He's leaning back in his chair with his arms hanging down the sides, swinging gently back and forth while he stares at me with his little beady brown eyes. He doesn't look evil like he used to but he still creeps me the frick out. Whatever this's for, it can't be good.

"You've been out playing super sleuth again, haven't ya? You must've come up with something _real_ good this time, the way you're tip-toeing around and tryin' to hide him from me."

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Your new little nerd crush." I just look at him and try to figure out what he's talking about and he rolls his eyes and starts knocking on his desk. "Hello? Is there anyone in there? Who the fuck's this Chocobo guy you've been recording with?"

"Oh, Choco's nothin' to worry about. I met him at PAX and he helped me run my booth. We played a mega poop ton of COD together and I finally talked him into giving YouTube a try." Jerome isn't impressed and he looks at me like I just started burping the alphabet in a purple unicorn mask.

"You're tellin' me you met this random guy and let him handle your money and gave him access to your computer? P, that's shocking even for _you_."

"Well, I _watched_ him and I checked him out before I let him do anything. He's more harmless than a housefly and a tenth as annoying. Choco's just a nice guy who's really lonely. Mitch told us to find new people, so I did. You hafta give him a chance, dude." The Bacca stares at me for a few seconds and huffs before he starts typing something on his side screen.

"Fine. Take me to your little birdy friend and we'll see how harmless he really is." My Skype starts calling Choco by itself and I have a feeling this isn't gonna go in his favor. Jerome wouldn't go after someone who didn't do anything wrong, would he? Didn't he say he was just pretending to be heartless and evil? The call rings a couple times before Choco picks up, and now his webcam's turned on, too. He never uses his webcam. This isn't gonna end well. Maybe I should give him a warning.

"Hey there, Choco-Boco-Loco. Nice bedhead you got there." He pauses mid-yawn and looks at me on the screen, his eyes widening as he sees himself looking back at him at the bottom. His dark hair's all crazy and curly and he's wearing a really wrinkled GameStop t-shirt like he didn't wanna waste the time changing when he got home from work. Am I the only guy in North America who bothers to fix his hair and change his clothes regularly? Like seriously? And I thought Rob's laziness was surprising – Choco's even more uptight than him and he still dresses like a slob.

"Preston, what's going on here? Why are you calling me in the middle of the afternoon?"

"I didn't. I-"

"Hey there, nice to finally meet ya. My name's Jerome Asafa and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you two lovebirds?" The Bacca must've appeared on Choco's screen because he looks like he saw a ghost and he's staring at him with his mouth open.

"Okay, stop right there. Are you and Nooch gonna ship me with every person I come in contact with?"

"Nah. Nothin' can beat the Poofless, P. The sooner you accept it, the better it'll be for all of us. Anyways, _Choco_. What's up, my man?" Poor Choco looks terrified, like someone's trying to run him over with a car. More than that, he looks hurt, like I just sold him out like a total snake and it kills me to see him so sad and scared. He doesn't deserve this.

"Jerome, why-" I start but the Bac interrupts me like he always does.

"Why does everyone always assume I just show up to melt people's skulls? Can't a Bac have a pleasant conversation with his new friend without someone breakin' out the pitchforks?" Jerome raises his eyebrows in mock offense and huffs with an unreadable smile. What's this guy after now?

"F-friend?" The Bacca bobs his head slowly in a dramatic nod, his dark eyes reading something on the side screen. "But we just met thirty seconds ago. What did I do wrong?" Choco looks so nervous he might hurl. Why do I always have to mess everything up for everyone?

"I didn't realize there was a time limit before I could be somebody's friend. Where can I find an application? I should fill it out while I wait in line." I don't know if Choco can handle this. He wasn't prepared to deal with a Bacca today, not like preparing yourself does any good. He still creeps me out two years later. "Looks like you're clean. You've got some real interesting stuff on your computer."

"I-I what?" Okay, so he's officially having a meltdown now. His face's bright red and he looks like he's about to have steam coming out of his ears. I hafta do something before he loses it.

"Was there a reason to break into his computer, or are you just here to terrorize the poor guy? Back off, dude." Jerome makes a pouty face and crosses his arms over his chest like a kid who just got told to clean his room.

"I see Rob let you have one of his balls for the weekend. You two gotta work on setting up a better custody schedule. No matter where I look, one of you's running at half-steam." I glare at him and he grins at the look on my face and turns back to Choco. "Nah, I'm just here to talk some business. I'm a business Bacca, after all. Just so happens we've been lookin' for someone to fill a new position on our team and what can I say? I have a weak spot for little lost puppies. Look at these other wrecks I've gotta put up with. Between Rob, Mitch, and Vikk, you'd think I was runnin' a low-cost nuthouse over here."

"W-what do you want from me?" It looks like it's taking every last ounce of courage for Choco to keep talking. I mean, before you get to know him, the Bacca's a pretty scary guy. He's still pretty intimidating even _after_ you get to know him. Everyone knows he led the defense in the Great War of 2012 and put most of the nails in Dawn's coffin, and that's just one of the more recent things he's done. He's got a reputation the size of Mount Everest, and even epic nerds who live under rocks and don't game know who JeromeASF is. A couple years and a new username can't erase the legacy of Awesome Sauce Films's infamous Hacksource.

"I just wanna offer you a deal real quick. Ya know, being a denizen of the Deep Web and all, I don't like the sunlight too much. Can't spend too much time aboveground or my fur starts fallin' out by the handful."

"How can I help you?" The poor Chocobo looks like just wants to turn around and hide under his bed with his collection of empty Fresca cans. Even his brave face doesn't look brave, and he keeps looking over at me like he thinks I can help him. I'm out of my element here.

"I see you spend… wow, a shit ton of time online. You could prob'ly get a job with the FBI with those search skills of yours. And you're on every social media website ever made."

"I like to keep up with what's happening in the world. It's kinda hard to do that without the internet and social media." He isn't talking as quiet as he was a second ago. Is the caged bird gonna try to sing now?

"Hey, nothin' wrong with watching the news. Would you say you're a social media expert? Can you feel your way around in the dark, sketchy corners of the interwebs and come up with some gold?"

"I wouldn't say I'm an expert... I'm competent."

"How about Twitter? Facebook? Tumblr? Fan Fiction Dot Net? YouTube? All that jizz?"

"I'm a reader, not a poster; I spend my life lurking and grinding levels. I've been crawling around some of these sites since they launched."

"So you've seen some crazy shit behind the scenes. You're the wise one. The watcher on the wall. Our one true king. You've seen it all. So tell me: on the internet…" Jerome waves his hands in a circle like he's waiting for Choco to finish his sentence. Why do I magically get lost whenever the Bac starts talking?

"Nobody knows you're a dog?"

"Exactly. You're hired." Wait, so now we're on The Apprentice? What the frick.

"What?" Apparently Choco's lost, too.

"You're hired. You passed the background check and we just did the interview. You're our new media consultant. How much do you make at GameFlop?" Jerome points at Choco's shirt, and he looks down at it dorkily like he forgot he was wearing it.

"Uh… Seven bucks an hour, thirty hours a week. That's the best I could do."

"No shame in tryin' to make a decent living in a suck ass economy. But there're more important things in life. Like bacon." The Bacca grabs his phone and starts typing something in, nodding as he looks at the little screen in his pitch black office. He looks back up at the middle computer monitor and he's smiling like he just won a game. "You can quit that job now. Don't bother goin' in tonight."

"Wait, what? What're you planning to do to me?"

"I'm promoting you. We'll start ya out with twelve-hundred a month on salary, paid by the week on with the software included. It's an around-the-clock gig with open hours and occasional insane work periods when things fall to shit. But you're responsible for watching everything that's said about all of us at all hours of the day and night on the entire internet, so keep your eyes peeled and your feathers ruffled."

"So he's like your UAV?" I ask as it finally hits me what he's trying to do: against all odds, he's gonna help Choco. The Bac's really just a big softie. With sharp teeth. And dagger claws. And evil little eyes. And Betty. Okay, maybe he's not cuddly, but he's a nice guy deep down under all that hair and parmesan deodorant. And maybe a little rabies.

"Somethin' like that. As much as I hate to admit it, Baccas only have three eyes. I can't watch everything all the time and expect to get enough sleep to not go around ripping people's heads off with chopsticks. With me, the Benj, Woof, Nooch, and your stanky ass, it was already pretty hard to juggle everything. But now with Batman and Ickle Vikky-kins and this Chocobo of yours and whoever else Mitch's herding into his newest gigantic mess, it fuckin' sucks Chicken McNuggets. So whaddaya say? Is bird the word?"

"You want _me_ to help _you_? B-but how am I supposed to help you? I'm just… I'm just _me_. I'm not good at anything that could help you."

"But _we're_ askin' you, aren't we? Come on, Choco! This's what you've always been waiting for! You can quit your sucky job and move outta your mom's basement and be your own man! Even if YouTube doesn't work out, you'd still be doin' a heck of a lot better than you are now. What do ya have to lose?"

"I don't know, G. It's just so much so fast. I don't-"

"Have I ever steered you wrong, ya bird brain? And the Bac's never steered _me_ wrong. You'd get paid for doin' what you do, anyways. Do you really wanna go spend another night by yourself in a dark video game store that smells like stale popcorn and burnt rubber?" He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands for a few seconds before he gets up and walks right outta the room. Jerome frowns and we both sit and watch a light turn on in a little room next to Choco's bedroom. What's he doing? Is he in there crying or something?

"Is he always this stressed out?" Jerome asks as we keep watching the little yellow light streaming into the dark room on the screen. What's taking him so long? Did the Bacca literally scare the crap outta him, or what?

"Pretty much. It's kinda scary, being a bird." Jerome snorts and grabs a Monster and pops the can open so he can get a couple chugs in. If Choco takes this job, I swear those two'll be the best frickin' friends ever. They can stay up all night talkin' about lame memes and bad videos and carbonated drinks.

"You'd better tell Rob about that job opening at GameFlop. If he sends his resumé in today, he might actually have a chance." Finally, the light turns off and Choco hurries back into the room wearing a worn-out Final Fantasy t-shirt, a big smile on his face while his GameStop shirt hangs limply in his hand.

"I'm in, boys." He picks up his Fresca trashcan and tosses his work shirt in for us to see and the Bacca and I both start clapping like idiots. "Where do I sign?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Trigger Warning: This chapter might be triggering or disturbing for some readers. If you don't think you can handle it, I encourage you to click away. Please check the story description for an updated list of warnings.**

* * *

 **November 15, 2012 at 4 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

A wave of relief and satisfaction courses through my veins as the thickened skin gives way and the ice cold sliver of metal gets the taste of blood it has been waiting for all of these months. Finally, there can be some light in the darkness and a breeze in my mind. Something has to blow this endless grey haze away so that I can see the ground in front of me again. At last, I can fix another one of my many imperfections. Mitch might have thought he was sneaky when he invaded my room, but he tends to underestimate his allies, especially me. Why would I give him access to the only cure for my illness when I had old, dull, ineffective tools I could sacrifice? He didn't have the chance to find the false back on the third drawer down in my chest of drawers, and he thinks he defeated me. No one can control me.

'He should be grateful he has Jerome to take care of him; he would have been forgotten history by now without him.' The single, short cut slowly fills with bright red blood, and I set my arm down on the pitch black hand towel to control the blood flow and to keep it from staining the white caulking in between the tiles on the countertop. I run the glinting scalpel under the faucet to clean off the tiny smear of blood along the bottom edge before setting it aside. I expertly unscrew the cap on the new bottle of rubbing alcohol, placing two doubled-over gauze pads over the top of the bottle before I tilt it upside down. Pressing the freezing alcohol against the fresh wound, I let out a small sigh at the familiar sharp sting. This is the only part that still hurts – I can't feel the blade over the scarred areas, where the nerves and veins have been damaged beyond repair.

'Preston and his offhand comments about how cold my hands always are… What would he say if he knew the truth?' The last time I was hospitalized, the surgeon warned me that more cutting might cause me to lose the use of my hands. I reflexively test my fingers and ball my right hand up into a fist, and everything looks and feels normal, or as normal as it can, given my past. 'Imagine being a gaming YouTuber who can't use their hands. Imagine Preston trying to teach you how to parkour with your feet.' A small, half-hearted smile takes command of my face and I look up for a second before glancing away. The hollow, haunted face staring back at me looks like absolute shit: my eyes are bloodshot and ringed with black circles, my hair is too long and out of control, my beard is overgrown and unkempt, my skin is slick and grimy with oil.

'This is why I haven't been using facecam; I look like I just escaped from the eighth circuit of hell.' I let the wad of red-stained gauze sit in place while I grab two more little sheets and repeat the process, dropping the mess in the plastic bag on the counter when the bleeding stops. The trip to the store late last night had been more than worth it. I grab the red cardboard box next to the mirror and tear it open with my teeth, and the new roll of tan cloth bandages rolls out, bumping lightly against the rim of the sink. I open the last package from the store and grab four little strips of paper stitches, carefully unwrapping each one and prodding the straight edges of the loose flesh into place, locking them together the way they should have been placed years ago. To finish my handiwork, I gently but firmly wrap my forearm in the light brown bandages until the skin can't shift underneath, and I use the scissors from my office to sever the strip of fabric from the rest of the roll before tucking the end in place. I take the tiny trash bag of bloody gauze and incriminating evidence and force it down to the bottom of the kitchen trash can where no one will ever see it again. In the bathroom, I thoroughly clean everything before stashing the bottle of rubbing alcohol at the back of the cupboard under the sink and the rest of my supplies in the nook behind the modified drawer in my bedroom. As soon as the wooden plank clicks in place and the drawer slides closed, I know I got away with it.

'I feel like a serial killer.'

Knowing that Mitch is due to stop by any day now for another covert inspection, I gather up a set of clean clothes and a towel and go back to the bathroom to take a shower and shave. While I wait for the water to heat up, I examine the cut from my last failed attempt at shaving, the skin still red and painful even after almost three days of meticulous care. As steam starts to condense on the mirror, I reach under the sink and grab a pair of plastic grocery bags, using the scissors to cut them into sheets before I wrap them around the gauze bandage and tape them in place with thick medical tape from the medicine cabinet. I cringe at the feeling of it pulling at the hair on my arm as I take my clothes off, annoyed at my own thoughtlessness. I can't even think clearly in this fog.

'Brilliant. You should have done this before you tried to fix your arm. This is why you can't have a job.' I hold my right arm out of the stream of water as best as I can, spending an unreasonable amount of time standing in its warm spray with my eyes closed. When the pipes start to sing, signalling the end of the hot water, I drag myself out of the shower, wrapping myself greedily in two bath towels to ward off the cold before I wipe off the surface of the mirror and try to trim my beard back down to a reasonable length. When I finally leave the bathroom, the cool air quickly pulls the rest of the warmth away from my skin and the tips of the rays of sunlight are just beginning to color the edge of the city through the window. I hurry to the bedroom and wrap myself up in the thick blue comforter, pulling my phone over to the spot next to my head on the pillow so I can wait for my parents' daily check-ins. Evasion is a form of art to me.

I watch the dark grey walls slowly fade to white as the sun lights up the world outside. I only have to exist in the same dimension with my thoughts for another half hour before I can hang up the phone, take the double-dosage of happy little pills on the bedside table to make the fog dissipate, and fall into a dreamless darkness until the sun goes down again. After that, the only voice I will have to hear is the indignant shriek of my alarm at five in the evening. All I have to do is wait a little longer, blank out a little more, until the phone rings. After that, I am free.

As always, my thoughts wrestle me back down to reality and force me to stare my demons in the eyes. My mind falls back to Preston and his precious girlfriend, the one who forgot their one-month anniversary and took offense when he was upset with her about it. The amazing girl who spilled two of his deepest secrets online for the world to see and laugh about. The darling who constantly points out that he should be eating salads instead of hamburgers, and that he has gained a few pounds since August. The sweetheart who won't let him call her, but always has to be the one who calls _him_ , regardless of his plans for the day or the inconvenience it causes him. The love of his life who only realized that Preston was eighteen and their relationship was problematic after several of his fans spammed it all over her Twitter feed. She knows nothing about him and they have nothing in common, yet he still clings to her. He holds onto her for dear life and bitches to me whenever something doesn't go how he wanted it to. The frozen roses she somehow didn't find on her front porch, the furious parents who took her phone away for two weeks so she couldn't text him, the constant arguments about his sense of humor, her discomfort with all of his friends, her complete disinterest in his career. I feel more envious of her than ever, and more upset at him than I am entitled to be.

'Feelings are overrated. Humanity is overrated. I wish I was a computer.'

Humans serve no purpose in this world. We are all empty bags of protein and chemicals – meaty bundles of bone, flesh, and blood trying to find patterns and meaning in a temporary stream of neurotransmitters and hormones. We think we know all of the answers, until the day the sodium-potassium pumps stop feeding the gradient and the unsteady heartbeats stop fighting the inevitable. How can anyone find any meaning in such an imperfect mess? Pain is nothing more than a fleeting electrical signal, short-lived and pointless. Love is, too. Everything I feel is a distraction, an illusion, a lie. Could there be any more evidence that love doesn't exist? By definition love is a construction, something we build to make ourselves feel special and connected. It exists only in our minds and on dead pages. It means nothing. Humans are fools.

* * *

 **November 23, 2012 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Five minutes, Robert. I mean it. We are going to be in and out in five minutes or less, or your mother is going to roast _me_ for dinner."

"Maybe you should take your own advice. You're the one who takes forever oogling at all of the cakes." Dad brings his car to a crawl and slides into a parking space, barely missing the silver van to the right of his spot. After spending my childhood in the back of his car, it's no wonder I hate driving – every time he gets behind the wheel, I see my life flash before my eyes. His car is a screaming, shrieking, moaning metal death trap. He throws his door open and I follow more carefully, watching him crunch his way through the slush like a dog with boots on its feet. Even after living in Quebec for his entire life, he still always manages to get snow in his shoes. He waits for me up by the front of the store, beckoning for me to walk faster.

"I will get the dessert if you get the wine."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? You said we only had five minutes."

"Five minutes. Time me." He puts on his innocent face and starts walking backward away from me, his feet pulling him to the back of the tiny grocery store to drool over the cakes and caress the pies.

'How does he not have diabetes? I can't even begin to imagine what he eats now that he lives on his own and doesn't have Mom to scold him when he indulges his bottomless sweet tooth. He acts like Preston with Five Guys.' I head over to the alcohol aisle and grab two bottles of inexpensive wine before I walk back to the front, scanning the store for a sign of life. There isn't even a cashier up here, let alone my father. I sigh and start walking in the direction he went, feeling a weak smile grow on my face when I see him looking back and forth between the two equally over-frosted chocolate cakes in his hands. He is hopeless.

"You said five minutes, Dad."

"Five minutes."

"We have already been here for ten minutes." He squints over at me like he isn't sure if I am teasing him or not, and he starts walking toward me with his two sugary monsters. One has a kilogram of coconut sprinkled on top with little plastic snowflakes stuck in it, and the other looks like an overgrown Timbit that had been mashed in a lumpy circle. "The plain one looks better."

"We have to go."

"Dad, she specifically said we only needed one cake."

"Five minutes, Robbie." He flashes me his troll grin and speed-walks up to the front of the store, standing up on the tips of his toes to peer over the side of the only open register, looking for a cashier. I stand next to him and he glances up at me reproachfully as I look directly over the top of the metal divider and wave the manager over. He has been bitter about that seven centimeter height difference ever since I was in high school. He pays and grabs his cakes, all but running back out to his car while I get his receipt and the bottles of wine. I quickly climb into the car and I feel like I am in a low-budget action movie. "Go, go, go, go, go!" The tires spin on a little patch of ice as he backs out of his parking spot and I brace for impact, but it thankfully never comes. Dad somehow maneuvers his way out of the parking lot and out onto the main street that leads to Mom's new house, and I hold onto the glass bottles for dear life.

'How does he still have a driver's license? He is an absolute menace to society.' Luckily, there aren't many cars out tonight and it seems like everyone on Mom's street parks in their driveways. He comes to an abrupt halt about a meter away from the front path in her yard and the car gracelessly slides on a small puddle of frozen water before finally skidding to a halt halfway in front of her driveway, blocking her car in place.

"Now no one can escape," he chuckles as he pulls up the hand brake and flings his door open, hurrying to the backseat to grab a dessert. He starts walking up to the front door with the giant Timbit, the coconut disaster nowhere to be found. I decide not to question it; who knows what he plans to do with the other one later. He taps the snow off of his shoes on the front mat as he rings the doorbell, his cartoon-like smile reflecting in the glass on the door.

'I can see why she fell in love with him, but I still question her sanity. Hello, my name is Rob and my father is a sugar-crazed lunatic.' I see Mom's silhouette through the wavy glass panes, the shadow cast by the living room lamps filling the small window before she opens the door. She looks annoyed, her eyebrows raised at both of us when she steps out of the way for us to enter.

"We're sorry, Dale. We got lost," he explains as he holds the glazed dessert up, as if it would appease her.

"Yeah, we got lost in the bakery."

"Shhh." He comically holds one finger up to his lips and starts walking toward the kitchen, still cradling the lumpy cake in its glossy, clear crib. I follow him into the kitchen and gently unbag the bottles of wine, laughing as Dad finally stops to examine what he paid for. "You should have bought one white, one red."

"You should have let me pick out the cake." He wrinkles his face up in mock offense and puts the bottle of cheap Chardonnay back on the countertop. I drop the plastic bags in the little recycling container by the back door and turn to follow Mom back into the living room. Instead, I find Dad leaning forward on the counter, staring at me with a guarded expression on his face.

'What could he have done this time? He's up to something.'

"You are going to be mad at me."

"Why would I be mad at you? I don't care if you have a cake fetish." He raises his finger and opens his mouth to say something before what I say sinks in and he starts laughing under his breath.

"Very funny. When you get old and grey, you are going to want cake, too." He leans against the black and tan granite island bar and sighs before he looks up at me again, his eyes tired and sad. "I know you aren't a kid anymore. You haven't been a kid for a long time. No one can tell you what you can or can't do, but I want you to make me a promise tonight. Can you do that?" His face doesn't give anything away, but it's clear that this was Mom's idea, whatever it was. Dad was always the calm and peaceful one, willing to let everyone step on his toes to keep peace in the family, and he goes out of his way to make everyone happy. Like every other time he has had to be the bringer of bad news, he acts like he is trying to tell a tearful six-year-old that the tooth fairy doesn't exist. "Please promise me that you won't leave tonight. Promise me you will stay."

"How would I leave? You drove me here." He snorts with a small smile and walks over to the other door leading into the living room, turning to look at me when I don't follow him. "Why would I try to leave?"

"You will see." I nod in confusion and brace myself for some badly planned disaster as I follow him into the next room. Mom is sitting on the right side of the couch facing the fireplace, talking to someone sitting in the recliner next to the kitchen door. Only the back of their head is visible from the doorway we came through, but I am relieved to see that it isn't Debra or Andrea. The evening might go horribly wrong, but I doubt it is going to end in wedding plans.

"What's taking Dad so long?" It takes me a few seconds to place the voice, but when it hits me, I freeze in place. Dad looks back at me to see if I'm still coming, then he grabs me by the wrist and starts dragging me toward the room, his fingers only centimeters away from the gauze wrapped around my right forearm and hidden by my thick, navy blue sweater. I try not to flinch away or make a face, and he must not have noticed anything because he keeps pulling me forward.

"He was just… There he is," Mom answers as Dad drags me to the edge of the room so I can't escape. He walks over the left side of the couch and takes his seat, leaving all eyes trained on me. I move over to the empty chair on the far end of the room and sit down before I dare look behind me. In the other chair is the man I haven't seen or heard from in eight years.

"Hi, Dar." He just looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed together in a small frown as our parents' trick sinks in. I would have come to dinner even if they had told me their plan, but I have no doubt in my mind that Darryl would have found some excuse not to show up. The idea of us being trapped here together must never have crossed his mind. Mom looks anxiously back and forth between us, waiting for some kind of fairytale magic to happen, while Dad stares directly ahead at the fire, his face blank in defeat.

"What is he doing here?" my brother asks them softly, finally tearing his eyes away from me to search their faces for an answer.

'That's right, talk about me in third person like you always do. Pretend that I was never here and that I can't hear you.'

"They invited me to dinner, same as you." He turns to look back at me, his sharp, dark eyes briefly scanning me up and down like he expected me to be wearing a pure white straightjacket instead of regular dress clothes. His short, dark brown hair is combed forward and gelled down and his beard is neatly trimmed and rounded, his professionalism making my overgrown, unruly hair and light stubble seem inappropriate, even pitiful. As usual, Darryl is the perfect son while I can't begin to measure up. He doesn't even feel the need to act halfway decent toward me. "Are you still going to school in Maryland? That must have been quite a drive." The silence deepens as he continues to study me, his hands resting on the arms of the leather chair and his eyes locked on my face. Mom eventually settles back in her seat and crosses her arms, sighing as she realizes that we aren't going to stand up and throw our arms around each other in a loving, brotherly embrace.

"Darryl is finishing up his medical degree at the University of London. He has about two years left before he starts his residency," she explains with an irritated tone, as if she had expected him to talk directly to me instead of him pretending that I was a ghost that only she could convene with.

"Congratulations. We always knew you could do it." His eyes fall down to my lips, watching me as I speak before he locks onto my eyes again, analyzing me as if he was preparing to diagnose me with a terminal disease. "Do you still want to work in the ER?" Silence falls heavily over us again, leaving us all to listen to the fire's restless crackling.

"Neurology," he answers quietly, his voice so low that I can barely hear him. This is the first word he has spoken to me since I was nineteen years old. I never thought I would see him again, and now he is starting to talk to me. He might not like me but at least this is progress.

"What made you switch?" He continues staring at me and I see Dad shift in his seat, finally tuning back in to the conversation.

'Is this something he never discussed with them? Do they know why he changed his career path?'

"This is more interesting, less stressful. I will have a longer career." His voice is barely higher than a whisper, like it is taking every last drop of strength in his body for him to speak to me.

'Dar isn't the kind of person to change his mind so easily. All he wanted for the first twenty-four years of his life was to be an ER physician, and now he suddenly redesigns his life plans? Something isn't right here.'

'Maybe he got this degree so he could study you for his final paper. He would have plenty to write about.' I brush the thought aside as best I can, but his eyes are still locked on my face and I can't help but feel like a failed science project. Mom uncrosses her arms and scoots forward on the couch, tugging on Dad's arm to join her.

"I need to get dinner started. Can you pour the wine?" she asks, and Dad cautiously looks between me and Darryl before he gives in and goes with her, glancing anxiously back at us before he walks through the doorway.

'Why does he act like he doesn't trust us to be by ourselves? Does he think I am completely insane, too?' We both watch them leave before I look back and see that Darryl's eyes are trained on me again, as if he is trying to find something that he knows must be there, somewhere. When the kitchen door shuts behind them, a deathly stillness settles in the air. Just like when we were kids, I hate being alone with him. Nothing pleasant ever comes out of his mouth and he always makes me feel smaller and more pathetic than I already do.

'Why would I ever wish that I was like this man? Why would I want another heartless creature like him to exist, thriving on others' misery and self-doubt? I hope he isn't a tenth as nasty to his patients as he is to me.'

"Why did you do it?" he asks as quietly as ever, his fingers curling slightly over the ends of the arms of his chair as he initiates our old circular fight.

"Why did I do what?"

"The cutting." I look down at my hands in my lap, unable to meet his dark, pitiless eyes. We can't even have ten minutes together as a family before he starts interrogating and accusing me like the Spanish Inquisition. I have already given up on trying to convince him; my arguments have become completely hollow and overused.

"I wasn't in my right mind. I don't really have a reason." He doesn't respond, and I can't tell if he wants me to continue or not. I can't stand this painful silence anymore. "Dar, it was never about trying to hurt you or anyone else. I just… I wanted to feel something and everything inside of me felt dead. It was the only thing that made me feel like I was still alive, and I took it too far."

"You took it to its logical conclusion, as always. Now look where we are." I glance up to meet his eyes and I can see a spark of white hot anger burning there. Honestly, who can blame him for hating me? I hate myself. "You were the one who tried to hurt himself, and now you're the only one who is doing fine. Everyone else has to pay for what you did."

"I'm sorry."

" 'Sorry' doesn't change anything. You are the only thing Mom talks about, every day and every night, and Dad still doesn't sleep fifteen years later. Just like when we were kids – if you couldn't have it, you had to break it and call it an accident."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You know what I'm saying. I shouldn't have to spell it out for you." If I knew what was good for me, I would walk out of here and call a taxi, promise or no promise. Nothing has ever pissed me off this much before.

"How dare you. How… how could you say that?" He blinks slowly at me a few times, like he is trying not to roll his eyes at my dramatic nonsense. As usual, everything is my fault.

"Are you trying to play innocent again, Robbie? Are you going to try to pin this on me, too?"

"I would never accuse you of causing our parents to separate. We might not get along, but I could never say something so twisted and hateful to you."

"So you deny it?" Like me, he smiles in anger and disbelief and pinches the bridge of his nose to keep himself from losing his temper completely. Whenever I look at him, I see myself, I hear myself, I hate myself. I know him so well that he has become the voice inside my head. We are so alike that we can't stand each other, and of course the more sane one despises the less sane one because he reflects all of his insecurities and fears. He blames me for everything that ever goes wrong, from a misplaced football shoe to Dad missing an award ceremony to our parents' divorce. He never sees the role he plays in all of this.

"Do you deny your part?"

"How did _I_ ruin their marriage?"

"Not coming home for the holidays for years on end couldn't have helped. Treating all three of us like shit wasn't the best course of action, Dar."

"That is complete crap and you know it. When I lived in Quebec City, I went home to see them every weekend. I still Skype them every Sunday, even when I have a twelve-hour practical the next day. You are the one who is always too absorbed in his own little fantasy world to remember that he has a family." That hits me right where it hurts the most. I blow a fuse and I feel my mouth moving faster than my brain can keep up. I know I will regret this conversation for years.

"Yes, because the inside of my mind is the greatest place in the world to be. Oh, how I _love_ dragging myself through life, day after day, afraid to say anything or ask for help in case Big Brother might be inconvenienced, or that he might have a hissy fit so he can get everyone's attention again." He actually laughs at this, the fury slowly growing in his eyes as our voices begin to rise. I wonder if Mom is still clinging to the hope that we can have a civilized family dinner.

"It was always about the attention, wasn't it?"

"Oh, of course. I'm so _talented_. I can hallucinate on command so that I can steal your spotlight for five minutes every year. The microwave told me to interrupt your football game so the illuminati wouldn't have to send probes down."

"Right. Did the clicker tell you to use Dad's razor blades to try to kill yourself?" he laughs scornfully, still convinced that my episodes of paranoia and psychosis had been just for show. In reality, I hadn't known it was happening until someone had told me about it afterward. Dr. Theresa said it had been a side effect of the medication I was taking at the time and that I wouldn't have to worry about it again, but the idea of slowly losing my mind has haunted me ever since. The nightmares don't help.

"No, _you_ did," I answer quietly, the truth of the statement throwing us into another deep silence. The staff at the mental hospital had recorded me pleading with Darryl to let me go and to stop hurting me during the evaluation period, when I had been in an empty room all by myself. I had tried to use my teeth to rip the stitches back out of my arms, and they had had to strap my wrists down to the bed and sedate me for four days before the episode had passed. The memory is still fresh in all of our minds, and it had prompted an extended investigation by child welfare services. It had not only interrupted Darryl's schedule, but it had ruined his social life; he had been branded as the guy whose kid brother was in the nut house.

"Poor little Robbie, always looking for a better plotline and a bigger audience. You must hate having me as your older brother when all you can do is sit on your ass and play video games. I'm surprised you don't still live with Mom." His voice is dripping with venom, barely concealing the hurt behind his mask

"I moved out in 2008 after my therapist took me off of suicide watch. I have lived on my own since then."

"Bravo. Should I tell Mom to get the camera?" His face is twisted in a snarl, nearly three decades of pent-up frustration billowing out of him and into the dim living room.

'I have always walked away from the fight by now and nothing has ever changed. What would happen if I kept pushing?'

"No, but you might want to find someone to talk to about this. Here, let me give you my therapist's number." I say it without any sarcasm, only meaning well, and he just huffs at me and crosses his arms defensively, glaring at me like I had just called him a vulgar name.

'For a physician in training, he is very close-minded and immature. He really does need professional help.'

"I am the last person in this family who needs therapy. Let's see: we have you with your phantom voices and cutting, Mom with her favoritism, and Dad with his guilt. I am the only _sane_ one in this family." At this point, Darryl is yelling loud enough for them to hear him from the kitchen and I hear the door swing open on the side by the front door. They must have realized that they can't hide from this forever. I refuse to rise to the bait and I fight to keep my voice as normal as possible.

"What are you talking about? Mom has never played favorites and Dad has no reason to feel guilty."

"Oh! So I see he still hasn't told you!" He turns and sees our father standing in the doorway, his eyes wide and his usual mischievous grin nowhere to be seen. Dad looks so small and vulnerable as he leans on the immense tan wall leading up to the vaulted ceiling. He braces himself against the doorframe and covers his eyes with his hand, preparing for the worst, whatever it may be.

"Darryl, please," he says, almost inaudible over the snapping fire behind him. "Please don't do this."

"How can you pretend-!"

"Leave him alone, Dar. If you need to take your disappointment and wounded pride out on someone, take it out on me. Dad doesn't deserve to be treated like shit." If anything, Dad curls in on himself more and leans heavily on the wall, like he is trying to fight the pull of gravity and he is slowly losing ground.

"This has nothing to do with me. This is all about _you_ and _him_."

"Then why are you butting in? If he has something to say to me, let him do it when he is ready. You have no right-"

" _I_ have no right?! Don't try to tell me what my rights are. I have had to deal with this since I was five years old, Rob. I have the right to enjoy the rest of my life without having to put up with any more your bullshit. At least if they told you the truth, you could get the help you needed and have a normal life. Choosing not to tell you is selfish – no, abusive. He refuses to do the right thing because he is a _coward_." I rise up in my seat and I feel my fingernails biting into the palms of my hands. The small incision on my right wrist is throbbing and I can feel the paper stitches fighting to keep the partially-healed wound closed. He can point his finger at me as much as he wants, but blaming Dad is taking it too far.

"Don't talk about Dad that way. If you want to talk about cowardice, look in a mirror. Even if he hid the truth, at least he didn't run away from home and try to hide from his problems in England." His eyes narrow and his voice drops dangerously low.

"Do you know why? He couldn't hide from his problem. _You_ were his problem."

"Darryl, please."

"He couldn't make himself run away from his mistake, so he hid it and let it ruin everybody's lives. He didn't even tell Mom what really happened."

"Please, stop."

"Did you ever wonder why they have no pictures of you when you were a baby? Did that ever set off an alarm?"

'Where is he going with this? Is Darryl going off the deep end, too?'

"Did you ever wonder why they made you skip the first half of kindergarten, or why they didn't let you play any sports until secondary school?" Dad is leaning his back against the wall now, his face buried in his hands as if he is preparing for someone to kick him in the stomach.

"Son…"

"You won't tell him and he deserves to know the truth. He needs to get the right kind of help, instead of relying on this pill-pusher Mom set him up with."

"I will tell him," Dad pleads, still frozen in place against the wall like a desperate artist's last feeble attempt at glory and fame. As usual, I have become completely invisible and voiceless.

"Tell him now. If you won't do it, I will. This has gone on way too long already." We sit in silence for a few seconds, neither of them noticing when Mom pushes open the door behind Darryl's chair to join the brawl. "Tell him, Dad."

"I… I-I can't. I can't do it."

"I can." Dad shakes his head furiously, refusing to look up. Mom looks concerned but not surprised; everyone knew about this except me. They intentionally left me in the dark. "The story was that you knocked a bookshelf over with your walker and it fell on you. That wasn't what happened. Dad slipped and dropped you on the corner of a table when you were a baby." Mom is covering her mouth with her hand and Darryl shows the first sign of normal human emotion since I entered the room. My life is quickly turning into a badly written soap opera. "You had a diastatic skull fracture and extensive cerebral contusions to the upper left region of your frontal lobe. They kept you at the hospital for almost a month, but the accident was conveniently left out of the medical records Mom sent your want-to-be therapist. Most drugs aren't very effective at treating disorders caused by brain trauma and, for whatever reason, neither of them felt it was necessary to tell you any version of the truth." The room falls silent for several seconds. I glance up at Mom for confirmation and she refuses to meet my gaze, trapped in her own wave of shock. I look back over at Dad, and he is still leaning back against the wall for support.

"Dad… Is that true?" He lets out a deep breath and, instead of answering me, he turns around the corner and walks toward the front door. I hear the lock click and he fumbles with the door handle, trying to escape from his waking nightmare. I immediately get to my feet and try to follow him, only to be blocked by a broad arm covered in a grey dress shirt.

"What are you trying to do? Let him go," Darryl says from the right of the doorway, but I firmly push him aside and continue going after Dad. He positions himself in front of me and tries to guide me back to my chair like they had taught him to do in medical school. He acts like he is afraid that I am going to try to retaliate against Dad for something that he couldn't help and I can't remember. "Rob, let him go. He-"

"Get the fuck out of my way." I shove him backward with a soft _thunk_ and edge around his stunned body, darting into the hallway to the front door while Mom whispers something behind me. None of that matters right now.

I throw the front door open and run down the steps, slipping twice on the icy sidewalk as I try to make it to the car to stop him. He is reckless enough without adding ice and adrenaline to the mix; I could never forgive myself if something happened to him tonight because of me. I slam into the car door and yank it open just as he starts to pull away, his forehead coming to rest miserably on the steering wheel as the car slides slowly over the small patch of black ice he had parked on. I reach over and shift the car into park and turn the key, a sigh of relief escaping me now that I know he is safe. I pull myself the rest of the way into the car and gently close the door behind me, settling into my seat to wait for him to speak. I am not as persistent and aggressive as Mom and Dar are. His breathing is uneven and his shoulders shake slightly as he sobs, and I have to resist the urge to put my arms around him. We sit there well after the cold has begun to set in and the windshield has clouded over from our breath. It feels like an eternity has passed before he speaks.

"He hates me, doesn't he? He knows it was my fault, all of it. I did that to him. I failed…"

"I don't hate you, Dad." His head shoots up and his wide, red-rimmed eyes search my face uncertainly. "Nothing could ever make me hate you."

"I… I am the reason you-"

'He blames himself for my depression and hallucinations. He thinks he was the one who caused me to try to kill myself. How could he live with this secret for almost thirty years, letting it eat him up inside?'

"You are the reason I'm sitting here right now. You saved my life. It was an accident and you did everything you could to make things right." I lean over and lean my head on his shoulder, feeling him stiffen up at the unexpected movement. "You and Mom were trying to protect me. If I had been in your place, I know I would have done the same thing. You have to stop beating yourself up over this."

"How can you not be angry at us?"

"How are you not angry at _me_? The things I did are easily a thousand times worse."

"That wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't yours, either." He sighs and tenses up again. Something is still bothering him. "What's wrong?"

"He didn't tell you the whole story." I pull away and look at him, but he is staring out the driver's side window, avoiding my gaze. "He left out one of the most important details. Given the circumstances, I don't blame him."

"What really happened? I need to know the truth."

"I don't know if he can even remember the real truth anymore. He made his own version of it a long time ago. It was his backpack from school that I tripped over. I had told him over and over to put it away, but he was just a little kid. He was so scared and he felt so guilty… He was only five years old when it happened. He thought you were going to die and he felt responsible. You were a constant reminder of those feelings. Before that day, he… He was more excited about you being born than even your mother and me, if that is even possible. All he ever asked for was a little brother.

"Dar loved you so much… and the thought of being the one who hurt you destroyed him. It messed him up inside. Dale could never know what happened, and nothing I did could make him stop tearing himself apart – even counselling didn't work. I failed both of my sons." He puts his face in his hands again and takes a deep breath, and I wait from him to continue, all of the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. "He didn't know how to cope with the guilt and he started taking it out on you. He blamed me for what happened, and he blamed you for reminding him of it every day. He didn't want to hurt you but he couldn't help it. When you tried to commit suicide, something inside of him snapped. He pulled away from all of us and he spent more and more time outside of the house, then he moved to the States to go to college. He did everything he could to escape from himself but it never worked. Somewhere deep down inside of him, under all of the hurt and denial, he still loves you, Robbie."

'Everything he has done in his life has been an attempt to distance himself from what happened. He was the sports star, the award-winner, the top student, the tireless doctor, just to make himself as visible and important as his broken younger brother, and to give himself something else to think about. I was the one they were worried about when he was hurting just as much. He has obsessed over that day since he was a kid, and it has become such a huge part of his life that he wants to study it for a living. I have never actually met my brother, and I am the reason why.'

"I don't blame either one of you for what happened, but I think we should tell Mom the truth. The first step to fixing everything is to stop lying and hiding things."

'You're really one to talk, aren't you?'

He doesn't acknowledge my comment, but I assume that he agrees. Everything will get much harder before it gets better. We sit there on the quiet, still road for a few minutes longer before it dawns on me that Mom is probably worried about what happened to us and Darryl is most likely ranting her ear off about how I assaulted him. Even if he isn't the person he pretends to be, he will stubbornly continue his act and cling to his denial for as long as he can; he will still be running from the truth. I reach in the backseat and grab the foggy, flaky coconut cake, setting it on Dad's lap while he stares out the window.

"So, are you going to eat that now, or are you going to confess to Mom?" He looks down at it and his face breaks into a sober version of his usual cheesy grin before he drums his fingers on the lid and grabs his car keys.

"I might have to share it with you. We have been gone for so long that your mother probably won't feed us dinner now."

"We might have to use it to pacify Dar. I think I bruised his pride on the way out here." Dad chuckles and throws his car door open, setting his sickeningly sweet dessert on the roof of the car while he straightens his crumpled clothes and tries to fix his hopeless hair.

"What did you do to your brother this time?"

"Don't worry. You'll hear all about it when we walk in the front door." I slam the car door shut and start crunching my way back up the walkway, and he takes his time following behind me. I tap the snow off of my shoes and walk in, watching Mom's face light up when she sees me and her lips purse in irritation when she sees that Dad has brought her another cake.

"I didn't realize we were having a cake walk tonight, Darren. How many more of those are you going to pull out of your sleeve?" she asks stiffly as he slips past me to go into the kitchen, the heady scent of the beef roast wafting in when he opens the door. I walk toward her and back to my chair in the corner of the living room and she pulls me in for a sideways hug before I manage to get away, huffing at me when I turn and smile at her from my recliner. "You boys are going to be the end of me, I swear."

"You should see the other cakes he has in the car. Those two are puny," I joke, causing her jaw to drop in horror as she turns to stare accusingly at Dad when he reenters the room. Even Darryl gives a small smile from his new spot on the left side of the couch. He has a bright green ice pack pressed against his temple where his head must have grazed the wall when I pushed him out of the way.

'He always said I was the baby. Look at this ham over here, basking in Mom's attention. He is so needy.'

"Darren, tell me you didn't buy more cakes." He just looks at her and flashes his troll grin as he sinks down into the other recliner and rests his right ankle on his left knee.

"What can I say, dear? I like cake."

"You know, you are just like this one over here with his cigarettes," she says as she points over at me, and I hold my hands up in surrender. "You promise you won't do it again, but every time you come around here, you have another stash going in your car. What are _you_ hiding from me? Are you popping pills from the pharmacy?"

"Never," Darryl replies as he picks his wine glass up from the coffee table and starts downing the clear liquid. He places the empty glass back down before he speaks. "I'm more of a drinker."

"Here I thought you were the only good one. For one night, we are going to have no nicotine, minimal sugar, and minimal alcohol. And no more fighting." She looks between Darryl and me as she says this, getting to her feet to refill her own wine glass.

"Whatever you say, dear," Dad responds, giving her his famous puppy dog eyes when she turns to glare at him.

"You should have bought three bottles, Robbie," she mutters as she opens the door to the kitchen and disappears from view. Once she is out of earshot, Dad leans forward conspiratorially, his voice low and his face serious.

"Everyone knows everything, and everything is forgiven. We don't fight about any of this anymore, yeah?" Darryl's face goes completely blank and his body stiffens so much that even his breathing stops.

"What are you going to tell Mom?" I ask quietly, looked pointedly at Dad to remind him of our discussion in the car. He shakes his head furiously and pretends to be leaning forward to grab his untouched glass of wine in case she suddenly reappears in the doorway.

"Some tunes don't need to be whistled to the magpies; the song would never end."


	27. Chapter 27

**If you are interested in bonus content that doesn't fit in well with the main story line, the chapter of "Bonus Hearts" titled "Words" fits into the timeline here. You do not have to read the extra chapter to follow the main plot line of this story.**

* * *

 **December 19, 2012 at 3 AM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"I sees you later, bby. Enjoy your fake meatballs." Vik snorts and Rob gives me his 'you hafta be kidding me' face before he blinks dramatically with a pout and starts to close Minecraft and the recording programs on his computer. He's getting ready to log off and do his editing before he goes to sleep, and he won't need any of that stuff open to nuke noobs with me and Choco this afternoon. Tonight is guys' night online and no one's gonna do any work for the whole night, except Choco and his weird snooping around he does for the Bacca. That doesn't really count. He's getting ready to start his own channel next month and we're helping him get used to commentating over his gameplay instead of just playing support and calling out locations. He's pretty funny when he gets frustrated, too. Such a salt mine.

"I love you, Preston," Rob whispers in his derp voice as he leans towards the mic so I can hear his creepiness in perfect surround sound. His pupils are really huge because he's sitting in the dark like a total weirdo with that dumb crooked smile of his. He looks like he's insane, like 'I'm gonna sneak in your apartment when you're asleep and cut you into a billion tiny pieces and cook you so I can make cactus tacos' insane. His crazy eyes are actually freaking me out and my skin breaks out in goose pimples.

"Shut the fudge up." I click on the remove button and Mitch him from the Skype call and I see him laughing at me before his video feed disappears. Now it's just me and Vik in the call. He looks like he got run over by a train and you'd never guess he was the same guy we were recording with five minutes ago. It's kinda disturbing how fast he can go from being super happy and hyper to just being completely wiped out and zombified. Sneakstar123 is too good of an actor for his own good. If you watched the video we just did, you wouldn't even be able to tell that he hasn't slept in 36 hours. "You gonna jump off here, too? Or is it editing time again?"

"Naw, I'm done. Even in school I was never one to pull all-nighters, let alone two-nighters. I need to throw it in before I break another keyboard."

"From what? Goin' Hulk on it?" Now that's something I wanna see: skinny little nerdy Vik screaming with his British accent and beating the crap out of a computer in a fit of blind rage in the middle of the night. I could get so many views if I recorded that. Talk about a Christmas bonus.

"Bruh, we aren't talking about you doing parkour maps. I just… fall asleep on them and when I wake up, the middle keys are skewed or broken off." He yawns halfway through and automatically flattens the top of his hair down in front of his headset as he glances down at the clock on his monitor for the thousandth time. It looks like it's already pretty late in the morning where he lives. I know I've made a lot of jokes about how uptight and high-stress Rob is, but he doesn't even start to compare with Choco and Vik. Maybe it's an Asian thing. Or maybe getting perfect grades in school just screws people up for life. I'm so glad I suck at math and American lit and got that B game going.

"Aww. Stop cuddlin' with your keyboards, Vikky. It's too fudging kawaii."

"It's 'kuh-wai-ee,' not 'koo-way.' 'Koo-way' means frightening."

"And now he speaks Japanese. Stop being smart."

"Am I smart, or is everyone else just dumb?" he giggles with his usual cocky grin and I just wanna reach through the screen and give him a noogie. I feel like I'm in a deleted episode of the Big Bang Theory – I'm always surrounded by geeks who think they know everything. Even Mitch is a know-it-all and he barely knows his own name most of the time.

"I think everyone's just different levels of stupid. You shoulda asked Rob the senpai if you wanted a real answer. At least then he'd have a jorb."

"Shots fired. He might be waiting for you to fly up to Montreal so he can give _you_ a job, if you know what I mean." He smirks as he swings his boom arm out of the frame and leans back in his too-big chair. He did not just say that. And I did not just imagine that. He's totally joking and he just wants to get a reaction outta me. Please God. Please tell me there aren't more people who seriously ship Poofless. He knows it's just for the camera, right? _Right_?

"Haven't you learned nothin'? Rob can't get _any_ jobs. Not even if he does it for free."

"Oh! So he does it for free! You asked him about it?" I can feel my face heating up and I wanna beat my forehead on the desk until I knock some of the stupid out. Why do all of Mitch's recording buddies hafta be complete trolls? Choco's like the only good one and that's because I'm the one who found him. "So does he use a barter system, or is it actually free?"

"Dad gommit, Vik! Rob-a-Dob-Flob-a-Knob can't get a job because he whines too much and he ain't got no skills. If you want him to get a job, maybe you should fly up there and teach him a couple things."

"Pew-pew! You're firing your lasers today. You sound pretty harsh for someone who's wearing a MrWoofless t-shirt." I reflexively look down and my blood starts to boil when I see he's right. Why does crap like this always hafta happen to me? Why does everyone think I'm in love with Rob the freakin' pleb? I'm not allowed to have best friends now? Why doesn't anyone ship me with Kenny or Choco to even everything out? Why does it always hafta be Rob? The only worse thing I can think of is Nooch. Or Jerome. Or Mitch. Or Vik. Crap. They ship me with all those guys, don't they? Why me?

"What? It's comfy! You wear Sidemen t-shirts all the time and you don't see me goin' around accusing you of having orgies with _them_." He makes that dumb giggle noise again and I hope he wakes up one of his housemates so they walk in his room and beat him down for me. This guy's just a tiny, nerdified version of Bodil except he's not even funny.

"Who knows what happens when the cameras are turned off? Why do you think they call us the 'Sidemen?' We spend all our time on our sides."

"TM-freakin'-I. Why'd you hafta give me that visual?!" I don't know what's worse – seeing them all laying in a conga line or in a big circle doing switcharoos. I'll never be able to think about the Sidemen House the same way again.

"I didn't give you anything. It's not my fault your brain is full of filth." I catch myself making a face and take a drink of my Red Bull to wash that picture outta my mind. I can't wait until I'm twenty-one and I can buy alcohol. Daka smuggling beer into the house was seriously the best part of him living at home. "You've got me curious now. How do things work between you and Rob?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I don't understand how your relationship works so well. You live so far away from each other and rarely see each other in person, but you're still so in sync. It's sweet, actually." I can feel the mouthful of energy drink expand and it explodes all over my clothes before I even know what's happening. Great, now he's gonna make a joke about how talking about Rob makes me wet. I get it, alright? He thinks he's punny and funny and witty but he's not.

"Holy crap. You did _not_ just go there."

"Why so surprised?" he says in his weird voice, and I wanna strangle him with his mic cord right now and hang him out a window for the pigeons to eat and poop on. Seriously dude? How can he believe this stuff?

"Because I'm not dating Rob and I'm sick of everyone thinking I am! I have a girlfriend!" I don't get it. Hannah's picture is plastered all over my Instagram and Twitter accounts and I talk about her all the time and she posts on my pages. So why doesn't anyone ever know about her? Do they seriously just look at my feeds to find Poofless stuff? Is that all I am – just the loud, fat half of Poofless?

"Oh. Really?" I facepalm so hard Rob probably heard it all the way up in Montreal. I bet he's laughing at me right now while he eats his TV dinner and edits his videos. How can Poofless be such a massive, hairy, smelly, radioactive mutant beast when Rob and I only use it as a joke in a couple videos a month? We aren't even promoting this ish and it's completely outta control. "I honestly didn't know that. When did that happen?"

"In August. She's freakin' awesome and I love her. And she lives in Canada." Vik snickers and now I just wanna smack him like a itch. He's lucky he lives like halfway across the world.

"Yeah, right. That's what they always say."

"What?"

"Either you have an invisible girlfriend who, conveniently, no one else has seen or talked to, or someone is talking out of his arse. Either way, I think you have a Canadian fetish, my friend."

"She's not invisible! I have her picture all over Instagram and I talk to her every day on Skype!"

"Funny how that works out. No one else has seen her in person, and you don't have any pictures of you two together. You could just be posting photos of some random girl you found on Google. You're scaring me a bit here."

"Fudge off. Go jump off a cliff in the Nether and burn."

"Why would I do that? _I_ don't want to be a lava mob. It looks like Rob has enough problems and admirers as it is."

"I do _not_ admire Rob! I'm not gay!"

"Whatever you say, bruh. I'll say one more thing then I'll let it drop." Vik pauses and looks at me with a devilish look on his face, waiting for me to ask what he knows. Why do I like this guy again? I don't get how he can be so nice and such a jerk at the same freaking time.

"Shoot."

"If you've ever had any intention of getting together with him, you should think about doing it now. I've heard someone else talking about making a move on him." Well that's news. Is it one of Mitch's friends or one of the Sidemen or… who else does Vik know? Or is he just screwing with me to make me do something stupid? Anyways, why does it matter? I don't wanna date Rob. It's not gonna happen. I'm not gay and I'm not in love with my best friend.

"Who was it?"

"Like I would tell _you_! That's half the fun of it!" Frickin' troll. Why can't I ever get an answer out of anyone? "I'll tell you this much: you won't be happy about it."

"As long as it's not Hannah, I don't give a single fudge. I hope it works out for 'em."

"You say that now. Damn, I'm going to have to buy some snacks for this one. This is going to be good."

"Oh, shuddup. Get your butt off here and get some sleep before you see more stuff that isn't real."

"If you say so. I'll catch you on Thursday at five PM Eastern?" He's all business now and even his greasy little giggle is gone. This guy goes from a hundred to zero real frickin' quick.

"Sounds good. Enjoy your sweet dreams about that Robert booty."

"I'm sure you will."

"Go to sleep, you fudging pleb! Get outta my sight!"

"Buh-bye, Preston." He hangs up with another smirk and I immediately facepalm into my sugary, sticky, Red-Bull-covered hands. This sucks bowling balls.

No matter what I do, Poofless still haunts me. I don't want it to. I don't want anything to do with it. I hate it so freaking much. It sucks in all the wrong kinds of ways and I wish I'd never agreed to use it as a running joke. I should've gone hashtag nope all over that ish when I recorded that Party Games video with Rob right after we met. I should've nuked it before it grew up and evolved into its final form. Now it's this giant, ugly, ninety-five-headed hydra monster that no one can control, and I'm the only one fighting it while Rob and everyone else just sips their tea and laughs at me. If it was with anyone else but Rob, I'd peace the whole scene and never talk to 'em again. There's nothing I can do about it but blow him off completely, and I can't do that to him. I don't trust him by himself for a long time without checking up on him and I just can't up and leave him after everything he's done for me and all the time we've spent together. My only escape plan isn't much of a plan – it's just a surefire way to bring Betty down on my head and make myself feel guilty for the rest of my miserable, plebby life.

And nothing I say helps, either. I can't sit there and tell everyone in the world that Poofless isn't real because no one freakin' believes me. They just pull a Vik and say 'Yeah, right' and they keep on telling me how perfect Rob and I are together and how cute our evil, nerdy Jewish babies are gonna be. And preggo Rob's a whole other can of bullshrimp I don't ever wanna think about again. What part of 'I'm not gay' do they not get? I'm not gay. I have a girlfriend. I don't like Rob like that. Nothing's ever gonna happen between us but bromance and jokes. No matter what Twitter and Instagram and YouTube and the fan fictions say, I'm not gonna marry that big, awkward, whiny, derpy pleb. Not gonna happen. Nope. I'm not gay.

And since when is it okay for people to assume who I like and what I like and what I really mean when I say something? You don't see people goin' around shipping Rob with AshleyMariee or Cupquake or some random girl he met at a convention. Why's it okay for people to step all over me and not listen to anything I say, but no one'll even say anything about how cute Rob would be with a girlfriend? So if you're gay everyone has to tip-toe around you, but if you're straight, people can say whatever the frick they want? No one questioned him when he came out as gay but no one believes me when I say I'm straight. What's the difference? How's that fair? I just want people to take what I say seriously and not sit there and try to tell me who I like and why. I _don't_. If I liked Rob, don't ya think I'd be dating him right now? Do ya see how I'm not? Guess what that means. I don't like Rob. He's just my friend. That's all he's ever gonna be. So stop trying to force me to be something I'm not and back the holy fiery frick off. I'm not gay.

Whatever. This isn't gonna do any good because if I try to say it out loud in a video or on Twitter, everyone's just gonna tag Rob and write #RIPPoofless and ask why we aren't friends anymore. They're gonna TL;DR the whole thing and ask when the next episode of Preston to Commander is gonna be posted or if I'm ever gonna play Hunger Games again. They just see what they wanna see and my thoughts and opinions and feelings don't freaking matter. And it wouldn't do any good to tell this to Rob because it'd just hurt his feelings. Besides, we can't do anything about it because it's gone way beyond the two of us now. We don't own Poofless anymore – the internet does. And that's scary as crap.

I sigh and peel my sticky fingers off my forehead and get up to go wash my face and arms and change my cold, wet clothes. I need to think of something I can do to at least lessen the Poofless and get it outta my face. Every time I open Chrome or check my e-mail, the first thing I see is Poofless. Poofless comments. Poofless photo edits. Poofless GIFs. Poofless tribute videos. Poofless usernames. Poofless fan art. Poofless stories. Poofless make-a-baby pictures. Poofless Halloween costumes. Poofless clay sculptures. Poofless poetry. Poofless t-shirts. Poofless fan clubs. There was even one person who had a Poofless birthday cake with an edible photo of us together on it, which goes way beyond freakin' creepy. And it seems like it gets worse every month. It was annoying in August, bad in September, worse in October… Then the roof blew off. It exploded into a million little flowery pieces in November and every one of those pieces has sprouted and grown to the point that our Minecraft channels have just turned into one big, giant, rose-covered Poofless weed full of busy buzzing fans who sting you into submission whenever you say something bad about a relationship that never existed. I hate it. I love my fans but I despise this ship. The only OTP I want is the one that goes in the toilet. I hope whoever's crushing all over Rob is his type because Poofless needs to go die in a lava pit. As stalker-y as it is, I'd rather have photo edits of me with Hannah than ones of me and Rob.

Wait. That's it. That's what Vik was talking about. I dry my face off on the hand towel and pull a clean t-shirt on before I hurry back over to my computer set-up. People don't think Hannah's real and that we're not really dating because we have no photos together. You know how to fix that? Take some photos together. I bring up Chrome and start Googling everything I can think of so I can put this plan into action. I finally know how to kill Poofless without losing Rob.

* * *

 **December 24, 2012 at 7 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"When's this happening?" Dad asks as he picks at a piece of roast turkey with his fingers. His eyebrows are scrunched together in confusion, like he can't believe I'd ever live anywhere but downtown. Sam and Daka couldn't make it home this year (thank the Lord) and Mom's just sitting back in her chair and listening to our conversation while Caleb, Keeley, and Josh talk about what they hope they get for Christmas. I already know what I want – and I'm gonna give it to myself.

"Prob'ly in March when the snow starts to melt. Maybe a couple weeks earlier or later. I was gonna fly up and find an apartment and come back and drive the moving truck up. I'll hafta buy a new car when I get there." As sad as it is to sell my baby, there's just no way the carefully restored black 1995 Ford Mustang I bought in high school is gonna make it in the snow and freezing cold. I'll have to buy something that sits a little higher and won't get stuck in three inches of slush.

"What brought this on? You don't wanna be makin' spur-of-the-moment decisions about something big like this, son," Dad replies as he finishes his turkey and wipes his hands off on his napkin. He really doesn't want me to leave but I have to. Things'll be so much better in Washington.

"I've been thinking about it for a while now. I could save a lotta money on plane tickets and hotel rooms if I lived closer to Seattle where most of the gaming conventions are held. Plus, I'd be much closer to my friends and Hannah. It'd be a lot cheaper and less lonely for me to live up there and fly back home every couple months to visit than live around here and hafta fly all over the country all the time." Now that's just a flat-out lie and I feel bad for telling them that, but they don't look suspicious. I guess it's a good thing my parents don't know a lot about my YouTube career 'cause that just made this a heck of a lot easier. If anything, I'll be ten times lonelier than I am now because I won't have my family dropping in to visit, and travel expenses are gonna be horrible because Seattle's out in the middle of freaking nowhere. But it'll be worth all the money and trouble when I get there. Poofless is gonna die this year, and Hannah's gonna be the one who kills it.

"If you're sure, honey. If something goes wrong, it'll be a lot harder for us to help you out of it. Are you sure you can handle living all the way out there by yourself?" Mom asks and I nod and try not to roll my eyes. She still treats me like I'm sixteen and she isn't sure if I still need a babysitter or not. I only come home on the weekends and holidays as it is, so what's a little more freedom gonna hurt? At least up there I won't hafta worry about coming home from the gym and finding Josh playing on my recording computer with a bag of Cheetos on his lap and Mom using up all my laundry soap re-doing the clothes I just washed but didn't wanna fold. I love my family more than I can even say, but a little distance couldn't hurt too much.

"I hardly ever ask y'all for help now. What's gonna change when I live a couple hundred miles north?"

"You mean a couple thousand miles. That's a long way away, Preston. We'll support you either way, but we want you to be sure before you get all the way up there and get stranded in some rinky-dink snow town with just a gas station and a mini mart. You know for sure this's what you wanna do?"

"Of course. I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't sure I could handle it. And it's not like I'm leavin' forever. I'll be back for Christmahanukkah and Passover and whenever I have conventions in San Antonio or on the East Coast. I'm not gonna ditch you guys. Plus, Dak lives up there, too."

"And you're sure you can afford this?" Dad seriously doesn't think I can do anything on my own, does he?

"Yes, Daddy. I can afford it. By February, I'll have enough to cover the plane tickets, the move, and a security deposit on a new apartment, and I can get a cheap car up there after I sell the Mustang at the auto mall downtown. It's all taken care of." They sit there and look at me for a few seconds before they trade a glance with each other and look back at me. Uh-oh. "So whaddaya think?"

"Well, I'll be honest, son… This isn't one of your brightest ideas. But if you think you can handle it, who're we to stop you?" Dad says and I nod and try not to look offended. I can't believe they still treat me like a little kid. I look at Mom and she sighs but still gives me a smile.

"If you're absolutely sure it's what's best, then I think you should go for it." At least she's on my side. "But Pressy… I want you to make me two promises that you're gonna keep when you get there." That can't be good.

"Uh, sure. What's up?"

"First of all, as soon as you get settled in, I want you to save up enough money to move back home in case something comes up. Okay?"

"Yeah, definitely. I was gonna do that, anyways."

"Good. And second, I want you to promise you'll keep going to youth group even when I'm not there to pull you out of bed anymore. Pastor Davids told me you skipped last week and he wasn't very happy with you." I feel a nervous smile taking over my face and Dad snorts and takes another drink of his wine. Ten years later and he still doesn't like the main pastor of our church.

"I swear I'll be more responsible, starting now. I won't miss church or youth group anymore, and I won't let my washer overflow again. I promise." She seems satisfied but Dad doesn't look so sure. I don't think he buys anything I said tonight. I didn't really expect him to. Whether they wanted me to or not, I was still gonna leave in two and a half months – I just wanted to give them a heads up so Mom wouldn't hafta try to pick the lock on my old apartment and walk in on something weird. Dad swirls his glass of red wine around a couple times and takes another sip before he sets it down.

"Alright then, Mr. Responsible. Why don't you get to work on that mess in the kitchen? I'm sure the kids'd like the help," he says as he grabs another little chunk of lukewarm turkey off the platter and starts tearing it apart. Mom looks like she likes that idea and I try not to make a face as I stand up, knowing they're gonna be talking about me as soon as the kitchen door swings shut. But it doesn't matter. In just nine or ten more weeks, I'm gonna be outta here and my new life's gonna start, without Poofless. I can't wait.


	28. Chapter 28

**January 11, 2013 at 1 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

Another car slowly crunches its way down the street in front of Mitch's rental house and my ears strain to hear if it is pulling into the driveway. I let out a deep sigh and stare up at the ceiling through one of the thousands of tiny gaps between the crocheted knots in the blanket over my head. I hear classic rock blaring through Mat's headphones from the other side of the room, and when I look over in his direction, I see his body poised to dart behind the door to jump scare the others when they finally make it to the house. I move my eyes up to glance through another gap in the blanket and I catch him looking over at me again, his dark eyes filling me with unease and resignation. Why does everything in my life have to be so complicated and awkward?

I told Mitch from the outset that this plan of his was a terrible idea but, of course, no one ever listens to the old guy. No one pays him any mind. He doesn't know anything; if he did, he would have a fucking job. In what universe is trapping Preston and Nooch together in a house for four days a good idea? Even Preston had his apprehensions about it, but when Mitch gets an epiphany, nothing can stop him – not even Jerome. Our brilliant little ringleader bought a nonrefundable plane ticket for Preston that he knew he couldn't afford to pay back, and he coerced the Nooch out of his dingy lair with the promise of free alcohol and chocolate milk. Being as stupid as I am, I agreed to come along for the ride. Apparently I am here to mediate if something goes down. With a little luck, maybe some additional head trauma will put my brain back in order; no one else seems to know how to deal with the problem, including my doctor. Mat shifts in his chair again and glances outside, his eyes resting on my blanket tent for several seconds before he goes back to his phone.

'Damn it, Mat. I thought you were joking.' Our conversation at the hotel room in August replays itself in my head for the millionth time and I grit my teeth to keep myself from groaning. 'He can't be that desperate; I have to be seeing things. There was no way he was serious. This is worse than my little stint with Bryn in college.' I try in vain to close my eyes, but they always fight their way back open. I can feel the air changing as the impending shitstorm begins to form, the eerie silence sending a shiver down my spine. It won't be this quiet again until Preston flies back home. This will be the first time I get a good look at the catastrophic mistake I have made.

'You knew this was coming. You never should have worked with Preston.'

* * *

 **January 11, 2013 at 3 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Preston**

"Are we there _yet_?"

"I swear, dood… If you say that one more time, I am going to shove your ass out there on the overpass."

"You sound more and more like the Bacca every day." It comes out as more of a whine that I'd intended it to but I'm past the point of caring. My butt seriously hurts. He does that snotty Benja smirk he reserves just for me, the one that looks like the yellow-eyed bully kid from 'A Christmas Story.'

"Much thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment." He snorts and looks in his side mirror before he merges over to the turn lane and I try not to cheer. My butt needs a serious break. I don't think I've ever wanted to run a mile in my whole freaking life, but I do today. All I've got done is sit in squishy chairs for like seven hours now and I just wanna jump out and walk the rest of the way to Mitch's messy, moldy house. But of course it's Canada in the middle of winter, so I'd die if I even thought about opening the door. Why'd I think spending half a week with a buncha Canadian nerds was a good idea again? Oh wait. I didn't. Fudging Bacca. I know he was behind this whole thing – he even mentioned it in one of our group Skype calls! He didn't say anything about Nooch, though. I think he just kinda invited himself like he always does. I wonder what they had to do to get Rob out of his spotless cave of misery and woe. Naw, that's kinda harsh. Maybe it was actually his idea to go outside this time. That freakin' man drives me up the wall to Canadia and back to Texas with his refusing to sleep and his secrets and his lies and his Poofless jokes. I wanna chain him to the wall in Mitch's house so he'd at least have someone to keep an eye on him.

When the car finally slows down and turns into the only not-shoveled driveway on the whole street, I yank my seatbelt off and throw the door open before the car even stops. Mitch's yell sounds like it's somewhere between mad and laughing, but I don't care anymore. My tailbone hurts like frick on fire and I can't deal with it anymore. I just hope it isn't what I think it is. I push that thought to the side and slam the door and crunch through a foot of icy snow to the trunk and grab my old gym bag before I waddle up to the front door as fast as I can. I don't know how these guys do it. I'm freezing my balls off out here and it's only been like thirty seconds.

"Shoes off before you go in and put them on the garbage bag so they don't drip everywhere. If you break it, you pay to fix it. Capice?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just open the fudging door already!" I push him gently outta the way and sprint into the house, sliding my soaked shoes and socks off and throwing 'em somewhere in the general direction of the magic flying garbage bag. Mitch scoffs and hangs his jacket up on the little hanger things by the door and watches me until I do it, too. I would've just thrown my jacket on the garbage bag, too, but Mitch's shoes are down there and I don't know if they're the new ones or not. The guy has like fifty pairs of shoes and you'd probably have to carbon date the nastiest smelling ones to see if they're made of pickled dinosaur meat. "Where's Rob?"

"Probably still asleep. He was on the couch downstairs when I left," he says as he points the way to his dingy underground cavern. I nod and creep down the stairs and start looking through all the rooms to find out where the jobless legend ended up. I almost skip over Mitch's living-room-office-thing until I see a big, grey, lumpy ball in the corner of the couch and I sneak over and sit on it. He immediately throws me off towards the floor and I just jump back up and lay on top of him completely.

"In Can-aw-da, the cold Can-aw-da, the senpai sleeps at noon!" I sing and he starts chuckling somewhere under my shoulder. He weakly tries to roll me off of him, but it doesn't work.

"Preston, that hurts. Please get off of my arm."

"No. Too warm and comfy."

"Preston, please. Your butt is heavy."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No, I-" I shift so I'm laying back on when I guess is his head and he makes a pitiful little giggling noise like he doesn't wanna cry uncle. I'd feel bad if it was anyone else but him. I do a lap dance on his head and he tries to get a grip on me to shove me off the couch. "AAAAAH! Pres-ton! Get your ass off of my neck!" I see Mitch watching me flail around on the couch like a Magikarp, then a door opens somewhere and he turns to look down the hall and rolls his eyes.

"Fuck you, Mat. That was supposed to be for after dinner."

"It _is_ after dinner. We ate dinner yesterday." Nooch sidesteps past him into the living room and settles into the desk chair with a water glass halfway full of orangey-brown liquor. This guy has zero rules and gives zero fudges. I bet he's drunk before the food even gets here. "You two should go get some after you get done eating each other. It isn't that cheap shit Rob always buys." It stuns me just enough that Rob manages to push me off and throw his scratchy yarn blanket on top of me. I don't care what anyone says – I'm still freezing to death and this thing's as warm as Satan's butt crack, so I'm gonna use it. Mitch rolls his eyes at me as I throw it over my shoulders and he pulls out his phone to order whatever the connoisseur wants us to eat for dinner. He rolls his eyes so much, I bet he spends half the day looking up at the ceiling.

"For someone who never hosts the party, you are awful picky about the drinks," Rob says as he jabs his finger between Nooch and Mitch's turned back. When you're being called Mitch-picky, that's a burn. "I remember a certain fifteen-year-old who used to give me his allowance and bribe me with packs of cigarettes so I would go buy him generic beer. I guess no one remembers the good old days, eh?" Wait, so Rob used to smoke? When did that happen?

"We're all a bunch of sinners. What do you want me to say?" Nooch answers as he downs a quarter of his glass. I wonder if any of us are even gonna remember this vacation. He offers the glass to Rob, who crinkles his nose and pushes it away before he gets up and goes upstairs. When he comes back with a couple bottles of beer, Nooch makes a gagging noise and scoots away from the couch on his rolly chair. "Uncultured swine."

"Picky ass. Not everyone was Prince Aladdin in their past life."

"Are you calling me a street rat?" Mat's face breaks into his typical toothy, Noochy grin and it just makes me crack up. Something tells me I'm gonna be learning a lot of deep, dark secrets this weekend.

"I would have called you Abu, but then you wouldn't have any pants to hide your loot in."

"Hey, a man's got to do what a man's got to do. You could pull it off, too, if you didn't wear your bleeding heart on your fucking sleeve with your puppy dog eyes. Here's your lesson for the day, Pressy: if you sell your heart and soul, you can buy a ticket to full personhood, no matter how much money you don't have. Then the whole world is your buffet."

"This guy can walk into a corner store weighing fifty kilograms and walk out weighing sixty – and he always walks out. If you ever need a pack of gum, just check his hair." Rob sits down next to me and tosses one of the beers in my lap, then pulls his keys out of his pocket and uses one to pop the cap off his bottle. Showoff thinks he's an MLG beer pro or something. "Back before he started YouTube and professional gaming, we called him Filch instead of Nooch. You knew he liked you if you still had all of your shit when he went home."

"Oh, stop it. You're making me blush," Nooch cackles as he downs the rest of his liquor and slams the glass down on the table like a frat boy who just won a bet. This guy's too much. "Come on, Pressy, get alcohol'd. Someone has to be the other end of our sandwich later." I stop messing with the cap on my beer bottle and just look at him, trying to figure out if he's actually saying something or just being a troll. I decide he's just screwing around when I see that Rob's facepalmed next to me and his scalp's turning tomato red. I guess it's an inside joke I missed.

"Stop being such a ham and go finish your bottle of Fireball," he replies to Nooch's delight.

"Let's be real here: you would be the ham." If it's even possible, Rob turns redder and he looks like he wants to crawl under the couch and hide for two months.

"You are really a dick, do you know that?"

"Only for you, Woof. Only for you." Now his face is purple and the tendons are standing out in his neck. I almost feel bad for him.

"Senpai, plz donz die," I laugh as Rob purses his lips just like his mom does and tries not to shrink down any more in his seat.

"I'm not going to die – I just want to kill this narcissistic little asshole over here."

" _You're_ going to kill _my_ a-"

"Forty-five minutes, boyos, then it's a party," Mitch interrupts as he plops down between me and Rob on the couch and looks pointedly at Nooch, who just raises an eyebrow and nods.

"What did you get us?" he asks as he gets up to refill his glass. Who knew Nooch was a walking beer keg?

"Hoagies."

"We got them sammiches, boys!" Nooch yells from the stairs and I can hear him snickering while Mitch just looks back and forth between us in confusion.

"Damn it, Mitch," Rob mutters as he takes a big gulp of beer and runs his hand through his hair. What the frick did I get myself into?

* * *

 **January 13, 2013 at 5 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Why you comin' home at five in the morn? Something's goin' on, can I smell your feet?" Mitch is grinning maniacally with his phone in one hand while he steadies himself against the wall with his other hand. I think I might be the only one here who is just tipsy – even Nooch is flat-ass drunk, and that is truly an accomplishment for him.

"Yeah, sure. Go for it. Here," I say as Mitch snatches my foot and gets a big whiff, trying to hide a look of astonishment when he realizes that my feet don't smell like a rotting corpse like his do. I hear Nooch giggling quietly behind me from his little drunken cocoon on the couch, and I don't think I want to know what Preston is doing behind me on camera.

"Delicious. Get a piece o' dat, girl! Nuh-uh," Preston adds with his sassy voice, and I turn to see him with his hips cocked to the side and his fingers wagging at me.

"Here." I wave my foot at him and he latches onto it, burying his nose in the top of my sock. He can never be outdone by Mitch, even in foot-sniffing. "I can't stretch like this for too long!" Preston chuckles but continues pulling at my leg, like he is trying to force me off of the chair so he can finally have somewhere to sit. Mitch turns the camera on his phone toward himself.

"Alright, we're going to get to bed now. We need some sleep," he says with a short slurp, eyeing the oddly silent, mostly naked Nooch on the couch while he prepares to end the recording. None of them are going to remember this later.

"Hot and spi-cy," Preston adds as he sits on top of me, sliding down to rest on my lap. He finally gave up trying to get Mat and me to move. Mitch laughs and pockets his phone, but not before he takes a picture of him splayed on top of me.

"Are you comfy, Perston?" Mitch cackles as he grabs his last beer and finishes it off with relish.

"Mmm." Preston throws his hand up on the back of the chair behind my head and slumps down like he fell asleep. It would be comfortable if he had sat on the other side and wasn't crushing things that don't enjoy being crushed. We sit like that for a few seconds before Mat scoffs and raps his knuckles on the wall behind the couch.

"Why don't you two just go upstairs and fuck already?" he asks deadpan, his other arm draped over his face like the light is hurting his eyes. Preston scurries off of the chair and goes to lean back against the wall, his face flushed dark pink. "We won't even post the audio on YouTube. Well, we won't post it on Mitch's channel."

"Shut the frick up," Preston hisses as he brushes his bangs off of his forehead and turns to throw his empty bottles in the little trash can by the door. He stomps his way upstairs and I hear him walk down the hall to his bedroom and snap the door shut. Nooch huffs and turns over to bury his head in the stiff arm of the couch in contentment, his eyes squinting in the light as he smirks at Mitch and me.

"Good job, Mat," Mitch murmurs under his breath as he flips the light switch off and turns to look at me to see if I am going to follow him upstairs. I shake my head and point to the computer, pretending to log him out of his YouTube account so that I won't have to deal with the awkwardness of walking with him. The worst thing I can do is have Preston catch me talking about him behind his back.

'This has gotten completely out of hand. Can I even fix this mess?' Now that it seems like everyone knows that I like Preston, even sitting next to him at a restaurant or sharing a bag of chips has gotten awkward. I don't know if Jerome sold me out or if I am actually that obvious about my feelings, but either way, the Poofless craze online definitely hasn't helped the situation. Every time something awkward happens between us, the tension just grows and he goes running back to Hannah with chocolates and roses to prove that he doesn't share my feelings. I hope he does a better job of convincing himself.

"That was really pitiful, you know," Mat says quietly and I ignore him. I pull out my phone and check Twitter to make sure that Mitch and Preston aren't drunk-tweeting things they will regret later. If they do something really stupid, Jerome is going to come down on _my_ head for not babysitting them. "I just don't see it happening anytime soon, Woof."

"The answer is no, Mat."

"Oh, come on. It's not settling for second-best if your first choice was never a choice. If he was going to run into your arms in slow-mo, he would have done it at PAX. Now he has that makeup girl he's going to live with in 'Worsh-ing-ton.' "

"No."

"I'm not asking for that much. All I want is a chance."

"Why are you making this so hard?"

"I'm not making anything hard. Get your hand out of your pants," he slurs and I give an involuntary snort of laughter. If the situation was different and he was a couple of years older, I would be tempted to give in. But I can't. It would cause so much unnecessary drama and tension, and I don't want to fuck up my friendship with Mat by screwing him. Not only that, but let's be honest here: Preston would lose his shit if I started dating Mat, whether he will admit his feelings or not. It just isn't worth it, no matter how long it has been since my last venture. I can't take that risk. "Do you know what your problem is? You are both so goddamn stubborn that neither of you can get your own pants off, let alone someone else's. If he would just admit he likes cock and you would admit you like _his_ cock, we'd have _world peace_."

"You need to stop hitting every time you go up to the kitchen," I say as I lock my phone and stretch, announcing that this conversation is over and I am going upstairs. "It just wafts off of you every time you move. You aren't fooling anyone."

"Fuck you."

"No offense, but I'll pass. Sleep it off." He nods and I turn the computer monitor off, quietly walking up the stairs into the quiet, still house. It doesn't smell like weed up here, thank God, and I grab my shoes and my coat and head outside to clear the stench out of my nose. Like a stark naked Nooch, it can't be forgotten and it always comes back to haunt you later. It would be my luck to get pulled over for speeding on the way home, then have my car searched in the snow for drugs because I smell like a blunt.

I silently shut the back door and walk out into the snowy backyard, heading around the corner to the dead, neglected garden from the previous tenants. I dig my nearly empty pack of cigarettes out of my coat pocket and light up, the stress melting away as the thick white smoke chases the smell of the basement out of my lungs. This trip is a complete fucking disaster. All it has done is push Preston and Mat farther and farther apart and stick me right in the middle of their giant, swirling shitstorm. Meanwhile, Mitch sits on the sidelines and munches on Cheetos. Mitch might be a ladies man, but Mat is an equal opportunity man where everybody has a chance and nobody is safe, even couples, siblings, and me. Overall, he is a good guy, but his morals are even more questionable than Jerome's.

'If you were him, what would you do?' I shake my head and lean up against the white panel siding of the house, closing my eyes and soaking in the sharp, freezing air. As hard as it is for me to make ends meet, I can't help but admire Mat. No matter how hopeless it seems, he always finds a way to make it work, even if it means pilfering peanut butter and bread from the grocery store so that his little sister has something to eat for dinner. Between his mom's disability benefits, his sponsors from YouTube, and his financial aid from his university, they still barely make it by. Someday, and I don't know when this day will come, he is going to trip on the tightrope and his balancing act is going to come crashing down. Someday, and I don't know how it will go down, he is going to have to turn to Mitch for help to pay the bills and buy his family dinner. Someday, and I don't know what he will choose, Mitch is going to have to show where his loyalties truly lie. I am afraid to hear his answer. When Nooch is gone, I will be next in line to be cut. Mat and I aren't profitable like Vikk, Jerome, and Preston, and we both depend heavily on Mitch and Jerome to stay afloat.

That brings up another dubious point: what does Mat really want from me? Is he actually interested in me as a person, or does he just see me as an easy source of income? I don't make much above subsistence level from YouTube, but that is still more than he has and I am an easier target than the other four are. It is easier to ask your boyfriend to help you out every now and again than it is to repeatedly ask a friend to loan you money they know they will never get back. He doesn't seem like the kind of person to use someone for money, but desperation distorts morality beyond recognition. If he claims to have already sold his soul to save his family, would he sell his body, too? It would also make it easy for him to blackmail me if we hooked up or dated and I denied one of his requests in the future. I might be overthinking this, but my overanalyzing and anxiety are the things that have kept me alive this long, not my lack of wealth or my beer-goggle good looks. I am not pathetic enough to sell my conscience and my reputation for a night or two in bed.

I crush the stub of my cigarette out on the bottom of my shoe and crunch my way back to the door, sliding my shoes and coat off before heading to my makeshift bed on the loveseat in the living room. Leave it to Mitch to make the tallest person sleep on the smallest piece of furniture. I know he did it so he could watch me and keep me from hurting myself, which is equal parts annoying and creepy. It also leaves me vulnerable to Preston's pranks and I have no way of escaping Mat's negotiations. The more time I spend alone with him, the more it feels like I am getting pushed into an arranged marriage.

'How often do the poor marry for love?'

* * *

 **January 13, 2013 at 12 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Preston**

I don't wanna go downstairs. My tailbone feels like it's broken and I just wanna hide up here forever and pretend to be hung over so everyone'll leave me alone. Especially Rob. I was acting like a stupid freaking clingy idiot around him yesterday and now I can't even think his name without getting embarrassed. I'm pretty sure Mitch won't say anything even if he somehow remembers any of it and I know Rob'll just pretend it never happened like he always does, but Nooch… Nooch never forgets anything. He never lets anything go, either.

And it gets worse than that. He sits and pretends to flirt with him to try to make me feel bad for being stupid. Like he's gonna make me jealous or something. Like I give a frick if he likes Rob. But I seriously don't like the idea of Noochless being a thing, and it has nothing to do with Poofless not being a thing. I just don't like how Nooch torments him all the time and takes his food and steals his clothes and breaks into his phone and walks up to him and starts petting his head like a complete weirdo. Just little stuff like that really pisses me off and I don't know why. And Mitch rolls his eyes and Rob laughs it off, so he keeps doing it because no one tells him off and puts him in his place. He thinks it's cute but it's just freaking annoying, okay? If he touches me like that or tries to take a bite out of _my_ burger, I'm gonna deck him one. I don't care if he's Bill Nye the Science Guy or not – he's gonna get a nose job.

But there's another part of it that really ticks me off: what if he isn't joking around? What if he's actually hitting on Rob all day, every day? And what if Rob gives in and starts dating him? I've known him for like three years now and he hasn't dated anyone since I met him, at least that I know of. The Bacca said something about him having a really nasty break-up with some girl named Vanessa but… judging by how many girls Mitch and Jerome have gone through in three years, I thought he'd like _someone_. Is he still afraid of dating a guy because of the backlash from the fans? Since he doesn't like girls, that has to be the problem. And then there's Nooch over here grinding on the back of the computer chair and grabbing Rob's butt and posing in his socks and underwear on the loveseat where Rob sleeps. It has to be a joke, right? And even if it's not a joke, there's no way he'd date Nooch. He wouldn't do that, would he? Nah, he can't like him. It's Nooch, for gosh sakes! He's just too nice to shoot like down like Duck Hunt. But what if he really does like him?

You know what, it's none of my business. It's his choice who he swaps fluids with. Why do I care what Rob likes or who he makes out with? So what if he likes Nooch? So what if they get it on when they're drunk? I don't care. I don't care! As long as I don't have to listen to 'em, I don't care. But what if they kiss in public or come up with stupid nicknames or do weird, Noochy couple-y things where everyone has to see it? I don't wanna see that crap. It's not that they're two guys. There's nothing wrong with that. It's just that one of the guys is Nooch. And the other one's Rob. They can't…

There's no way I like Rob. No. It doesn't work like that. I have a girlfriend. She's awesome and sweet and beautiful and I love her, even though sometimes I wonder if she loves me as much as I love her. But that's just me being paranoid. The point is, I have a girlfriend, I like my girlfriend, and she's a girl. That means I like girls, not guys. Rob's a guy, so there's no way I like him – he's just my best bro. There's nowhere for Rob to factor into this. I don't like Rob. I just don't like the idea of Rob-and-Nooch. Or Rooch. Or Noob. They don't even have a good couple name. Whatever it's called, I can't let it happen. I can't stand the idea of them having creepy, Noochy derp babies together. I think I might hate that mental image more than the stack of Poofless fan art I got at the last convention.


	29. Chapter 29

**Warning: This chapter might be disturbing to some readers. If you have a weak stomach, you might not want to continue past this point.**

* * *

 **January 15, 2013 at 3 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Hey, Mitch!" Preston yells from his spot on my loveseat bed, where he has lain sprawled out since sometime yesterday afternoon. I have officially been delegated to the brick-hard armchair adjacent to the loveseat, unable to leave because of Mitch's eagle eyes, and unwilling to leave Preston to writhe in his misery out here by himself. I have a feeling that he doesn't want to tell us what is really going on with him, but he is seriously worrying me at this point. A simple backache doesn't make someone moan and groan this pitifully for this long, and he is not usually one to bitch quite this much – that is Mitch's job.

"Yes, Robert?" Mitch sighs as he appears at the top of the staircase, looking at me as if he is daring me to say something about his snide comment. Preston doesn't seem to notice and just looks up at him pathetically with his big, dark brown eyes, unwilling to move from his precious spot.

"I don't think I can make the plane," he mutters as Mitch's eyebrow shoots up in suspicion.

"Dood, I know you've had an absolute _blast_ here with us, but you have to go home sometime. Why can't you go this afternoon?" Preston looks like he is about to say something snarky, but his mouth snaps back shut and he just shakes his head. We both wait for his answer.

"I honestly can't sit in one place for like four hours, plus however long it's gonna take to get on the freakin' plane and get my crap back from the conveyor belt-thing. Please don't make me go."

"I would let you stay as long as you wanted, but I have tickets to Jersey tomorrow to meet up with Jerome and Batman for business. No offense, but I don't trust you alone in my house. Why do you think I kicked Nooch out as soon as he was sober enough to drive?" Preston looks completely miserable and utterly defeated, and I give in against my better judgment.

"You can stay with me, if you want to." Preston looks up at me like he had never considered that a remote possibility and the corners of Mitch's mouth turn up in the beginnings of a smirk. "I have no plans to go anywhere until PAX in March, and maybe not even then. If Mitch can exchange your tickets, you can stay as long as you want to." We both look over at Mitch, and he gives an exaggerated sigh and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants while he walks over to the kitchen.

"Let me see what I can do." Preston actually looks like he would have been happy if he wasn't so miserable.

'What is going on with him? What is he trying to hide?'

* * *

 **January 15, 2013 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Preston**

I always thought seeing Rob's place for the first time would a fun thing. Like I'd fly up for his birthday or a convention or something and we'd just chill a-boot and have a good time and go explore the city or something. Nope. This freaking sucks fire and brimstone and it's absolute torture. What'd I ever do to deserve this?

"If I have it, you are welcome to it, with a few exceptions," Rob says as he bows and beckons for me to limp into his flat. It's about as dark and dreary and empty as I remember from The Great War of 2012, but he has a couple new things that weren't there during my virtual tour on Skype last summer. Mostly just a bunch more game controllers and one or two pictures on the walls.

"I don't want your vibrators, Robert. Trust me, they're safe." I step weird and a jolt of pain shoots up my spine and down my legs. I try not to let it show too much but it's the most excruciating thing in the world. The last thing I want is for him to chauffeur me to the ER like I have cholera or something, 'cause then it'll be embarrassing and way too much money for me to afford right now.

"Who said I had vibrators?" He's stopped in the doorway, looking in at me like he's mortally offended. I'm sure Mitch knows more about him than either of them want him to know since he lurks around watching him all the time, so I'm gonna take Benja's word on this one.

"Mitch, when he was eating you out of house and home. Don't even try to deny it – you're such a derp you can't even lie good."

" 'Can't even lie good,' " he laughs as he tries to pass it off, but I can see his face flush even in the low light and he finally shuts the door behind us and walks over to turn the lights on. I thought it'd be warmer in here than outside… I almost can't tell the difference. Is he an environmental freak or is he seriously so broke that he actually lives without heat like this? Why doesn't he tell us these things? Idiot's gonna die from pneumonia in here!

"Do you believe everything Mitch says?" He looks over at me with his I'm-trying-to-look-innocent troll grin but I'm not falling for it. Eventually he caves from me staring at him. "I never said anything about a vibrator."

"You have something. I can smell the guilt on you, you pleb. You can't fool a lava mob that easily."

"Yeah, you are really one to talk about hiding things," he scoffs as he grabs my gym bag of crap and carries it down the hall to get it out of the middle of the floor. He knows I'm not gonna move as soon as I sit down on the couch. He pads back to the living room in his dumb blue striped socks and sinks into the chair next to me so we're sitting almost just like we were over at Mitch's house.

"And what the frick is that supposed to mean?"

"I know you've been lying about your back hurting for the last three days. Tell me what is really going on," he says quietly as he tucks his legs under him and leans back against the back of the chair. He looks like L from Death Note. Why can't this guy ever keep his feet on the ground? Is it made of lava or something? Even at Mitch's place, he had his feet up on the desk, or he'd sit crosslegged on the couch, or with his feet up on the armrests in front of him at the movie theater. It's like he's afraid his feet are gonna get dirty or something. Maybe he should just keep his shoes on.

"I wasn't lying! My back really freaking hurts!"

"Preston… The only time you act like it hurts is when you sit down or stand up. I don't mean to get in your business or anything, but… Is there something going on between you and Mat?" Okay, no. What the absolute frickity frack is he on?! Is he on drugs? In what universe would I ever want anything to do with a naked Nooch, or even a fully-clothed Nooch? I can barely stand eating dinner with him and Mitch and Rob at a restaurant. How would I ever be able to stand him… doing _that_? Even thinking about it pisses me off.

"Are you freaking kidding me right now?"

"I didn't mean-"

"No. Just a million times over absolutely friggin' no. I wouldn't've even come on this trip if I knew he was gonna be there. So no, I'm not getting it on with Noochface."

"O-kay!" he shrieks in the high-pitched breathy voice he always uses when he's annoyed. This ish ain't even funny. "What's really going on, then?"

"I told you, my back hurts."

"Where does it hurt? I can go buy you a heat compress if you need me to. Look, I don't want to sit here and watch you hiss and groan in pain for however long it is going to take for you to feel better on your own. Just let me help you." I'm tempted to tell him, but I can't. Nothing good can come out of that. And I'm not gonna make him run out in the snow to get something for me like I'm his pregnant wife or something. I'm not gonna die. I hope.

"I'm fine. It's just really stiff. I'm not used to the cold, so that's probably what it is." He doesn't look convinced. Dad gommit, Rob.

"Preston. Just let me help you. If it bothers you this much, you really need to deal with it before it gets worse." We sit in silence for a few more seconds and I can't make myself look up at him from his Mitch-foot-scented couch. I hafta look really pathetic, laying facedown with my forehead where everyone and their mom have put their butts for the last millennium and a half. "I won't tell anyone about it, whatever it is. We have each other's backs, right? You helped me out with my depression, so let me help you with this."

"It's not the same thing. I… No. I don't wanna talk about it."

"Are you embarrassed?" More silence, and I can hear a dumb smile in his voice when he starts talking again. "I have seen Mat skip down Mitch's hallway in the nude. Twice. One of my friends in college made me feel his balls to see if I thought he had a lump. When I was six, I walked in on my parents fucking. My roommate during my last stint in the nuthouse ate his own shit. There are few things left in this world that can shock me, and if it's causing you this much pain, you need to take care of it."

"But it's really _gross_ ," I whine and I'm ticked off at myself for sounding so needy and annoying, like I'm a hungry three-year-old who needs a nap. Now he's just gonna bug me more than ever. Why can't he just leave me alone like Mitch and Daka and Mom always do? Why does he hafta be so freaking nice all the time?

"Try me. Whatever it is, it can't possibly be the worst thing I have ever seen. Cauldron Boy still holds that honor." I sigh and stall for time, and I look up at the clock and see it isn't even six o'clock yet. I don't see a way out of this and he's just gonna keep pushing me until I give in. Maybe I should ask him to go get that heat thing after all.

"So there's this thing that's genetic on my bio dad's side of the family that Sam gets, too. It's really gross and it hurts like frick on stilts and I hate it." I pause and hope he'll just tell me never mind. But no, he's just sitting there looking at me like he's interested now, like a freakin' buzzard or a therapist or something. Crap. I really didn't wanna do this. "So there's this little hole thing like on my tailbone and… sometimes it gets clogged up with skin cells and sweat and stuff and it gets infected and red and swollen and nasty, and it hurts too much for me to sit, so I couldn't go home. I know it's gross, but I couldn't sit for hours on end when it hurts like this. It just isn't possible to do. I can't even start to imagine how much that would suck. I barely made it ten minutes in your car."

"Like I said earlier, I'm not going anywhere. You are welcome to stay for as long as you want, but you have to chip in with food – we aren't working with much here."

"You literally saved my butt. Now can we stop talking about this?"

"No, let me help you." Now I wish I hadn't said anything again. He's not gonna let this go now, is he? He's just gonna keep on nagging me until he gets his way or my ears fall off. I guess this's what it feels like when I bug him to take his meds all the time. "Does it have an actual name, or…? What is it called?"

"Why?"

"I am going to Google it so we can figure out what to do."

"No! We aren't gonna do _anything_! I'm just gonna chill here until it disappears, then I'll text Mitch and have him switch my plane tickets to the next day. Don't worry about it, Robert." He just rolls his eyes and dramatically pulls out his phone to start searching like the ultra pleb he is. "Rob! Stooooop."

"No!" he squeaks, not even bothering to look to see if I'm gonna hit him or something. He knows I can't freaking move, so he's gonna use that against me and sit there on his big, giant bird perch that's like two feet away and ignore me. Sometimes I really don't like this guy.

"Rob!"

"Is it called a 'pilonidal cyst'?" I don't answer and he just looks back down at his phone and starts reading something. I shouldn't've said anything. This's gonna get so awkward. "You know, I could help you with this. I have done really dangerous things that have almost gotten me killed and lived to tell the tale, but sticking a needle in a butt pimple isn't going to kill either of us."

"No, Rob."

"Preston."

"I said, no! It's disgusting and I don't want you touching my butt." That struck a nerve and he looks offended. Dangit, Rob.

"Bro, I wouldn't do anything to your butt."

"I didn't say you would."

"I don't want to sit there and stroke it and rim you. I am offering to pop it for you so you won't be in excruciating pain for days on end. If you don't do something, you might get gangrene or blood poisoning, then you would have to spend days in the hospital and get cheek implants. Let me help you so we can both move on with our lives."

"No. It's nasty and I'm not gonna make you do that."

"You aren't making me do anything. Look, it even says on here that you shouldn't just let it sit around like that because it might get worse, or it might spread even deeper. I am going to guess that you can't do it because you are still suffering heroically over there. I have gloves, alcohol, and gauze in the bathroom, and I am sure that I can find a needle somewhere. We could be done in twenty minutes if you would stop being such a little bitch about it." Ouch. I guess I'm getting on his nerves. I really, really, really, really, really don't wanna ask him to do this, but I'd rather be embarrassed for the rest of the time I know him than get gangrene in my butt and have to have parts chopped off. I nod gently and I don't think he can see me, but he slowly gets up and walks down the hall to the bathroom from hell. I don't even wanna know what else he's done in that bathroom.

* * *

 **January 15, 2013 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

I can understand why he might not want me to help him, but does he have to be so stubborn about everything? He acts like it would kill him to give in every once in a while and ask for someone else's help. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be talking. I walk into the bathroom and grab the peroxide from under the sink and lay out a clean black towel before I risk going to get the rest of my supplies. I silently look out at him to see if he is watching me, but he seems too wrapped up in pulling himself back together to pay any attention to me creeping around. I skirt into my room and take the false back out of the second drawer down in my dresser to get the gauze and gloves I had stashed from my last personal plastic surgery session. I replace the drawer like I had found it, concealing my small collection of scalpels and a bottle of expensive rum that I have been hiding from Mat for two years. When I get my makeshift surgery station set up in the bathroom, I slowly walk back out to get Preston; I tap him on the shoulder and he shakes his head and moans loudly.

"You really don't hafta do this. Please don't do this to yourself," he whines, like that will stop me from trying to help him. If something happened to him because I didn't do this for him, I would never be able to forgive myself. He doesn't seem to understand that we are in this thing together. I pull up on his arm and he gets to his feet jerkily, trying to cause himself as little pain as possible.

"Just go in there and wait for me for a second. I need to find a needle to lance it with." I go to the kitchen to search through the junk drawer that is mostly full of odds and ends that Mitch, Mat, and Dad have left behind since I have moved in here. At the very back of the drawer, I find a large, silver sewing needle with no signs of rust or debris. I gently close the drawer and follow Preston into the bathroom. He is standing there, leaning his side against the wall by the towel rack: he looks beyond miserable. "I know you don't want to do this, but I need you to pull your pants down for this to work, bro."

"I really don't-"

"Preston, I have seen other people's asses before. Yours isn't going to be that different. Now would you please cooperate?" He sighs dramatically and turns away from me to unbuckle his belt while I wash my hands and unscrew the lid on the peroxide to sterilize the needle. I grab a small paper cup from the cabinet and pour it in, letting the needle soak in the clear solution while I pull on a pair of gloves and set up everything on top of a clean black towel. After the gauze pads are unwrapped and spread out on the towel, I fish the needle out and let it soak in a second, fresh cup of alcohol, just to be sure that it is completely sterile.

"You're really prepared for this, aren't you?"

"My grandpa and brother are both doctors – it runs in the family. I also have quite a bit of practice. Besides, I would rather not have you trying to sue me after one of your cheeks falls off." He stands facing the mirror and looks at me through my reflection, his eyes dark and uncertain as he watches me work.

'Does he seriously not trust me? Is he that convinced that I would try to rape him or hurt him somehow? I thought we had gone through all of this already when we had to share a hotel room the first time.'

"You have to pull your underwear down, too. Seriously, bro? How do you expect me to work here?" He bashfully pulls his boxers down to his knees and pulls his shirt up out of my way. I try not to make a face when I see it, but I can't help but feel awful for him. How long did he put on a brave face and try to hide this? I don't blame him for not taking that flight home. All of the skin around the top of his ass is bright red and swollen, and a huge yellow bubble is seated right at the base of his tailbone. I'm surprised that he didn't go to the emergency room to have it taken care of – it looks like a good source of sepsis.

"Is it that bad?" he asks jokingly with a hint of fear laced in his voice. He turns to look at me, but I just nudge him back in place with my shoulder and grab a gauze pad and the peroxide to begin cleaning it.

"It doesn't look as bad as the pictures online, but I can't believe you were willing to live with this until it decided to spontaneously combust. Maybe you have a higher pain tolerance than I do, but still… This is bad, Preston."

"I didn't _choose_ to get it. It chose me. It just kinda happens if I sit in one place for a really long time or if I sit on something that's too hard for a while. Once it starts, there's nothing I can do about it until something makes it pop. Then it's really disgusting. Are you sure you wanna do this?"

"If I didn't want to help you, I wouldn't have offered. I would rather have both of us grossed out for a couple of minutes than have you in the hospital for a week. Now stand still. I know it hurts, but if you move, it will only hurt more." He sucks in a long breath and holds it while I use the gauze pad to sterilize the area around the pocket of infection. His muscles twitch away from me, every movement making my body tense up more. I don't want to hurt him, but I have to in order to help him. "Okay, so that wasn't too bad."

"Says you, Mr. Hands."

"You weren't even screaming. It couldn't have been too bad." I fish the needle out of the cup of peroxide and dry it off on a clean gauze pad, then I turn to look at him in the mirror. He is still watching me warily, unsure of whether he can trust me or not. "Not going to lie: this part is probably going to hurt quite a bit. If you stay still and don't try to fight me, we can be done in a minute or two. The more you move, the more it is going to hurt and the longer it will take."

"Okay," he whimpers as he leans forward so his pelvis is against the sink to stabilize himself more. I put my left hand on his lower back and push him forward to keep him from moving. He takes a breath like he is about to protest, but thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. I find the area of the cyst where the skin seems to be the thinnest and take one more glance up at him in the mirror, his dark, wide eyes still trained on my face.

"When I count to three, I want you to take the biggest breath you can and hold it for three seconds, then let it out. Ready?"

"I guess." His voice is like an octave higher that usual, but he isn't arguing with me for once. I can't tell if this is progress or not.

"Alright. One, two, three." I feel his lungs and ribs expand a few centimeters above my hand, then his body freezes. Slowly, he begins to let out his breath, and I take that opportunity to push the needle into the head of the immense boil. I had been hoping to distract him, but his breath escapes from his lungs all at once with a sharp whimper and a violent jerk. "Preston, don't move."

"Ow, ow, _ow_! Okay, no. Stop. Stop, stop, stop!"

"We're almost there. Just a couple more seconds."

"Oh God Almighty, that hurts. Stop! _Rob_!" Every word comes out as a higher, louder squeak than the last. He tries to push away from the sink to make me withdraw the needle, but all he manages to do is jab himself even harder. He yelps pitifully and resigns himself to his spot, his forehead propped up on the faucet. I decide to risk it and give the sore a sudden poke. Instead of crying out in pain, Preston collapses onto the sink in relief and exhaustion as the real fun begins.

It takes a few seconds for the smell to hit me as I push the gauze pad against the streaming needle hole, tossing the bloody needle aside on the counter as I reach for more gauze. The bathroom fills with the sweet stench of infection, blood, and sweat. Lucky for him, it doesn't smell like rotting flesh or he would be sitting on a towel on the way to the hospital right now. I can barely keep up with the flood of pink-streaked yellow pus, and soon I have run out of gauze entirely.

"Can you grab the toilet paper and start unravelling it into little layered squares like these?" I ask as I wave the last gauze pad up by his elbow, frantically trying to keep up with the thick fluid before it can stain his clothes or the bathroom rug; this is the minigame from hell. When Jerome dies, this is the kind of party game he is going to be playing with Mat, Mitch, and me for all of eternity. I gently press on the red area around his tailbone to drain the inner pocket of infection, and he doesn't even react. After all of the pain he has been in for the last few days, I wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't even feel this. It gets harder and harder to soak the pads of paper until there is only a few drops of bright red blood on the last piece. I toss the barely-used wad of toilet paper up on top of the pile on the counter and stand all the way up, reaching over to grab the small trash can to slide all of the used supplies into. Finally, I grab the bottom of the palm on my left glove and take it off inside out, using the clean surface to peel the other glove off.

"Done?" he asks, as if he is surprised that there was an end to the violent stream of infection. He straightens up a little, preparing himself for the spike of pain that never comes. I know the feeling: being so used to cuts and stitches along my arms, I brace myself whenever I move.

"Done. For now, at least. It will probably drain for a little while still and we might have to lance it again later, but that should be most of it." He bends down to grab his underwear, but I reflexively reach over and swat his hand away. "No, you have to take a shower and put clean clothes on. The last thing you need is to get it even more infected with dirty clothes." He just stands there and watches me pull out a bottle of cleaner and quickly wipe down the counter and put everything away, his face scrunched in confusion.

"I told you earlier my stuff's all dirty. Mitch told me it was for four days, so I only packed for four days."

"I own clothes. I can find something for you to wear where you won't freeze to death. Probably." I tie the trash bag shut and carry it out to the hall where the linen closet is, and I grab him a towel and wash rag before turning and throwing it in at him. He just looks at me uncertainly from his spot in front of the tub, his belt and zipper undone and his pants halfway up his legs. "I'll be back in a minute to find you something to wear. I don't want this in my apartment anymore." He nods and shuffles forward to shut the bathroom door, shifting his eyes away from me to avoid meeting my gaze.

'What have you done now? How long is he going to act like this?'

'Are you surprised? This is Preston you're talking about. That was probably the closest thing to sex that he has ever had. Did you just expect him to be okay with it as soon as it was over?' I sigh and unlock the door, taking my time walking down the hallway to the trash chute and back. I would avoid him for the rest of the night if I could, but real life doesn't work like that. I eventually get back and lock the front door behind me before heading to the kitchen to wash my hands very, very thoroughly. They smell like latex, but thank Notch they don't smell like pus. I head to my room and start shuffling through the drawers, looking for a size or two bigger than what I usually wear. When I finally find a long-sleeved shirt that will fit, I turn around to see Preston staring silently at me from the door across the hall, unwilling to leave the warm steam of the bathroom. He looks down at the clothes and rolls his eyes before stepping back into the bathroom, the first grin of the day fighting its way on his face.

"Everything you own is black, white, blue, or has video game stuff on it." I toss the clean clothes on the counter before grabbing the South Park boxers Mom bought me years ago and waving them in his face. He snatches the giant Cartman head from my hands and nudges the door shut with a smirk. I head to the kitchen to unearth my collection of take-out menus and begin sorting through them, looking up only when Preston reappears with a massive pile of dirty red and black clothes.

'He might get over this sooner than I thought.'

"That goes over here in the corner," I say with a straight face, pointing to a spot by the end of the kitchen counter, watching as his forehead creases in confusion. When he sees me pointing at the trash can he rolls his eyes and threatens to put the mound on top of the coffee table. "No, it's behind the folding door by the bathroom. Just throw everything in and I will take care of it."

"I know how to do laundry, Robert."

"Not in _my_ apartment you don't. I will take care of it." He sighs exasperatedly and rolls his eyes, slouching on his way back to the hallway. I hear him open the little door and, when it sticks on its track like it always does, he stops.

"Hey, senpai?"

"Just yank it and it will open. I told you, you don't know how to do laundry here in my domain."

"Typical Canadia. Nothin' works, not even Rob."

"I did my job! Now get over here and pay the bill." He reappears with his wet, tousled hair and a frown, his hands in his pockets to hide his wallet like the walking stereotype he is.

"What bill?"

"The dinner bill. Either you buy, or we both get ramen noodle surprise."

"Ugh. F-ine," he groans as he steps into the kitchen and I walk around him to go fight with the washer from hell.

"Thank you!" I gently tap him on the butt with my foot and he turns and tries to grab my leg to no avail. "Touchy, touchy!"

"You touch the butt, I keel you. Freakin' cactus." I head down the hall where he can't see me, and I turn and see that he is still smiling while he leafs through the menus.

'Jerome might know more than I give him credit for. What an absolute mess.'


	30. Chapter 30

**January 17, 2013 at 4 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"Dangit, Rob. Go the frick… back to sleep." It's so warm and nice and comfy and soft and I don't ever wanna move and go back out in the darude snowstorm that's always goin' on outside. Fudge Canada. I'm stayin' right here. I hear the phone go off again and I know he's not gonna let me sleep in even though it feels like I didn't even sleep at all. I reach over towards him and try to smack the buzzing phone out of his hands to make him stop, but all I feel is cold air and a squishy pillow. I unbury my head from the nice comfortable spot I'd found and frown up at him but there's nothing there. It's just a pillow. That's it. And I'm not even at his apartment anymore – I'm back home at mine.

It's weird being alone after the week I just had. It went from being always loud and always crowded and always having someone screwing with me to being quiet and peaceful and chill but never alone. And now it's just sad and empty, and surprisingly cold. Why am I this cold? I duck back down under the covers as my phone vibrates somewhere on the bed again and it's like I'm back up north again. I'd run out of shampoo and stuff two days before I flew back home and I still smell like his detergent and his soap and shampoo. I think I might be turning jobless, too. I don't even wanna move to get food. I miss not having to wake up to go get my own food, too, even though the only things he can make are eggs and bagels and coffee. I wonder how much it'd cost to fly him down here and kidnap him in the little hall closet by the front door with the vacuum. He'd be like a Roomba but better and cheaper. But I don't think I'd be able to go weeks at a time without beating the crap outta him for being a doodlebanger. He's jobless for a reason and I don't need that kinda nonsense in my apartment twenty-four/seven.

The phone buzzes again and I finally give in and search around for it with my hand. I pull my arm back like it's something long and detached from Detective Gadget and when I see it's just Hannah texting me about something that happened yesterday, I just clear the notification and throw it back over on the empty side of the bed. I don't even care about what happened to me yesterday yet. I'll worry about her day later. I slowly, painfully extract myself from the bed and all I wanna do is climb right back in. The worst part about getting up (besides immediately getting cold) is finding out you have a raging boner you didn't notice before. I look back at the spot on the bed and see there's a big, hard knot of blanket pressed up against the pillow I'd been trying to disappear in. If I hadn't got up when I did, I'd probably hafta change the sheets. I try not to think too much about it as I head to the bathroom to take care of it, but I know what caused it. And I really need to take a shower to wash it off. Next time I'm gonna buy my own freaking soap.

* * *

 **January 19, 2013 at 3 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

I watch the little dials on the clock move from 3:22 to 3:23, and this minute feels just as empty. I have been laying here for four hours now, tossing and turning and trying to sleep without drugging myself out of my mind. The freezing, silent, still apartment just doesn't feel right without your sweltering body heat, your open-mouthed snores, and your deadly feet swinging on the other side of the bed. I even miss your drool stains on the pillow and the cloud of coffee cups and cans that always seems to surround you. There is just something so endearing about you not putting on a show and not trying to hide your quirks and bad habits. Doesn't it feel good to just be yourself and not try to put up a front? I get so tired of living in front of a camera and standing on a stage for all to see, and I know you do, too. I don't understand why you would be so willing to run right back to that.

God fucking damn it, Preston. Sometimes I get really tired of your childish, idealistic bullshit. You only ever see what you want to see, and only when it fits your needs. As soon as that window of opportunity closes, you act like it was never there, like it never happened. I know I'm crazy, but I'm not so utterly, irredeemably insane that I just spent three days imagining things when you were here. You liked it here and you liked being with me, whether you want to admit it or not. Yes, I will admit I'm jealous of her and her selfish, petty shit, just like yours gets on my nerves and grinds them to the bone. You two might be soul mates after all, with your short-sighted, whiny bitching and your self-centered living in the moment. As soon as you walked into the airport with all of your bags in tow, you left all of the baggage behind for me to deal with while you went on your merry way back to your little pseudo-reality, and me, being the gullible dumbass I am, I bowed down and carried it around for you. It weighs too much, Preston. It hurts for me to always be crouched over, struggling to keep my balance while all of it teeters on my shoulders, ready to fall. Someday, this is going to crush me.

You always see what you want to see and ignore what doesn't fit your perfect little schema. I held your ass cheeks open and popped a gigantic infected boil in your ass crack, then I spent five minutes draining a liter of yellow, bloody pus out of it for you so you wouldn't have to go to the hospital. Meanwhile, Princess Hannah doesn't even notice that your selfies aren't at your apartment, which she has been to and seen for herself, all on your tab, I might add. Yeah, I really wonder who cares about you, Preston. I really fucking wonder.

If I calculated it correctly, you spent three minutes texting her during the whole time you were at my place. That comes out to about a minute per day over a span of three days. Bro, I spent more time talking to my mom about food during that time than you did with your so-called girlfriend. How could you so willingly run back to that with open arms when she isn't even willing to open the door for you or the flowers you sent her? How can you have so much love and affection for someone who could so obviously take you or leave you? That is the definition of unrequited love, my friend, backed up by someone who is beyond familiar with the term. Why would you waste your time with someone like her when there are plenty of other fish in the sea, even if you are still sticking to your 'I'm as straight and sweet as a ray of sunlight' story? Why would you settle for fishing in the fish bowl? A beam of light may be the straightest thing you'll ever see, but as charming as you are, that isn't you; even Jerome can see that, and he gets more laughs out of it than he would at a circus. I don't know who you think you are fooling, but it isn't working on me.

I'm starting to wonder if you are ready to be living out on your own and making your own decisions. Your parents should have kept you at home a while longer. You think that packing up and moving your life to a remote corner of the country is going to help you run away from your inner demons, like hakuna matata is a legitimate lifestyle choice. You've got me there – even The Infamous Nooch hasn't bothered to try that philosophy, and he tries everything at least once. You deserve some kind of award for being the most privileged, immature, spoiled brat on the block, and I know I am going to be the one to pick up the pieces and carry that baggage, too, when it all comes crumbling down on you and you can't move. You stress me out so much but I can't bring myself to wash my hands of it all. I care about you too much. You talk about the move like you are still trying to convince yourself that it is a good idea, hoping that your plans and everyone else's opinions will magically fall in line with your fantasies. What do you plan to do when you get there? Are you going to sit in your apartment all alone, with no family or friends there to keep you company and pull you out of your pit of self pity? Did you think she would come around as soon as you set foot in Washington? She doesn't even live in Washington, man. That would require her to actually get off of her ass and drive down from her parents' house in B.C. to see you, and this is the same girl who barely even texts you. This sounds like an amazing plan! Yes!

In her defense, you are pushing it way, way, way too quickly for it to be healthy. You met her in August and seven months later you are basically already asking her to move in with you. Any normal person would feel pressured and manipulated by you doing that. I know I sound like an asshole thinking it, but I am going to laugh when you unpack the last box and turn around to see she just broke up with you via text message. What I can't figure out is why you are trying so hard to conjoin yourself with a girl you hardly know and have very little in common with.

Are you trying to hide from something, Preston? Did something spook you? Was it the number of silent conversations we had, talking with just a look or a gesture? Was it you falling asleep on my shoulder for the hundredth time, trying to stay awake long after the caffeine rush had worn off? Was it you finally going to bed and constantly moving farther and farther on my side, trying to stay warm and pushing me to the very edge of the mattress with your violent thrashing? Why does this make you so anxious and unnerved? Why does it make you cringe and back away, like I burned you or infected you? Why do you keep fighting it when it obviously hurts both of us? Is it that bad to just admit you like a guy?

I turn over so I'm not facing the accusing red numbers on the clock anymore, knowing that I still won't be able to sleep when something feels so wrong. I feel empty now, and I know you do, too. I suppose I should just be happy that I didn't make a bet with Jerome about this – I would have lost so much money that I don't have.

* * *

 **January 25, 2013 at 9 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"We have to talk," he says the instant I answer his Skype call, his horn-rimmed black glasses perched on his nose and his wild hair pulled back in a curly ponytail. He has that same look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks he has a winning battle strategy for DOTA, and I get the feeling that I don't want to know what is going on in his head. He strokes the pitiful beginnings of a goatee on his chin while he schemes, studying my face for some kind of reaction. I was praying for some kind of distraction today, and I guess I found it. I should be careful for what I wish for.

"What did you do this time, Mat?" He grins and puts his hands up in the air in surrender, like I had just caught him filching something out of my medicine chest. I would wonder what we are going to do about him, but that leads to the question of what we would do without him. For as much as I can't stand the guy sometimes, we can't just let him float off into the sunset on a raft made of plastic bottles and shitty plans.

"Woah, woah, woah! Someone didn't get their milk and waffles this morning!"

"No, I'm just preparing my ears for when the fire alarm starts going off right next to your microphone again. What kind of trouble did you get into this time?" He moves his lips to the side like he is thinking about something, then he looks guiltily up at the camera with just a hint of a smirk playing around his eyes. The only kind of film he would ever be able to act in would be a porno; he has no poker face at all.

"I know it's going to seem kind of sudden, but I just thought I should let you know. You know, before someone else told you. I thought you'd want to hear it from me first."

"What did you do?" He looks around behind him, like he is checking to see if anyone is listening in. He might fool Preston or Vik with his shenanigans but I have known him too long to fall for it. He knows it but he just can't resist.

"I, uh… I'm pregnant." He rolls his chair back into the closet door with a small crash to show me the decorative pillow he had stuffed under his magenta sweater, the buttons stretched out and ready to burst. He rubs it lovingly while he tries to look as innocent and serious as he can, but those are two things that simply don't mix with anything he is. The only time he would be innocent of anything would be if the roof caved in on his head right now, and probably not even then. I just look at him and he looks at me, somehow keeping a stony face. "And it's yours. Well, like sixty-nine percent sure it's yours."

"Are you sure it isn't Jerome's? He might have used his fly hacks to knock you up wirelessly through the Counterstrike server." That gets to him and he breaks down into a fit of giggles, his eyes full of devious laughter as he pulls the lacey pillow out and puts it behind his head. He is the child of Harley Quinn and Bill Nye the Science Guy, logical enough to come up with a maniacal scheme but too brash to wait for it to work. He has something cooked up in that twisted brain of his that he needs me to help him put into action. "What do you want, Nooch?"

"I have a proposal for you, good sir. One I think you might like."

"Oh, really?"

"Seems pretty lonely at your place. Pressy go home?"

"He left last Tuesday. He had things to take care of back home."

"S-uuuure. I bet he did. Did he take care of things there?"

'I am not having this conversation on a Wednesday night with Mat, of all people. Why does he always have to be so sadistic?'

"Nothing happened, bro. Things aren't like that."

"Yeah, but you wish they were. Don't you?" He sees something in my face and he nods with what almost looks like a sympathetic smile. "I can't make him do a complete one-eighty overnight but I can definitely help with that. There's a Mat for that."

"So now you're an app? How would you plan to go about that, exactly?"

"Jealousy is a really powerful cure for heartache, Robbie. Just call me Dr. Nooch."

"It sounds more like Dr. Death." He chuckles and reaches over for a glass of something and takes a long swig of it. I would bet fifty dollars in Steam cash that it is either chocolate milk or hard liquor. Water doesn't register on his list of drinkable substances more than once or twice a year. "I'm out, man. I don't like playing games with people. If it is going to work out, it will happen when we are both ready for it."

"Oh-ho! So now you believe in fate? When the hell did that happen? I think his God-fearing bullshit is starting to rub off on you." He watches me for a reaction, like he had expected that to hit a nerve. It looks like his plan isn't going to work out like he thought it would. "Putting Preston aside for a minute, the proposal is still up for grabs. If you suck my dick, I'll suck yours."

"What are you trying to coerce out of me?"

"So you're interested?" He smirks and I just facepalm. I knew he would try to pull this shit when I saw him crunching numbers on his phone last weekend at Mitch's house. Math is only ever good for one thing to him, and the answer is only satisfactory when it goes his way. He always finds another formula to use.

"Not in the slightest. I just want to see if I can help you. What do you want from me?" He checks behind himself again and makes sure that his door is shut before he continues, his face more serious and somber than I have ever seen it.

"The other guys can't know, got it?" I nod and he sighs before he continues. "Money. I really, really need cash right now. Things aren't… They aren't going so great. You know my mom has been out for the count for quite a while, and our so-called dad isn't exactly John Cena, ready to fly into the fray to pull our asses out in one piece. It's up to me to make all of the ends meet and I just… I can't do it anymore. It isn't physically possible. I can't do YouTube and school and work a job all at the same time, so something has to give if I can't figure it out. I can't get caught selling term papers again or I'm going to be out on my ass with even less money than I have now."

'Is he actually trying to sell himself out to protect his family? In his own warped, dented, duct taped kind of way, it's kind of touching. He would do anything to take care of his mom and sister, even if it meant going to jail, giving up on his dreams, or selling himself to me. Should I be offended that he thought I would accept his offer, or honored that I was apparently the only one he trusted enough to ask?'

"Mat, I am almost as broke as you are, and you know that. Why are you asking me to help you? Shouldn't you be asking Mitch or Jerome? They have the funds, not me." He shakes his head and pulls his glasses off, pretending to inspect them and clean them while he talks.

"I don't want to put any more stress on that bridge than I have to. If it gives out, I'm stranded out on Nobody Island without a way to get back. Bugging them for loans isn't going to solve the problem – it'll just put paint and smiles on the symptoms and make another mark against me when I can't pay them back. Everyone knows I have enough strikes as it is. And they don't know what this level of shitty feels like. You do." He puts his glasses back on and looks me straight in the eye on camera, hoping to find something there that I can't afford to give.

"Dude, you know I wouldn't make you do something like that. I pretend to have some semblance of a soul even though I don't believe in the damned things. I would give you the money if I had it, but I just don't have it. I can't even afford to turn my heater on."

"Neither can we. And it's really not helping things with Mom." There is real pain in his eyes that he can't hide and I can't ignore. He came to me for help, and I can't just turn him away; we need to figure something out. "Look, I get that I was a little off the court with my offer, and I'm sorry. But two wrongs don't make a right and two rights don't really make a left, but two poor people can make it to payday."

"Are you suggesting…?"

"How much would you lose if you walked out of your apartment today? Just the damage deposit, or would they make you pay more? What are the sunk costs?" When I don't answer he just blinks dramatically and continues. "You said one time you were paying seven-fifty a month for that shack plus utilities. If you split the internet bill with me, we could upgrade to the better service and I could cut you a deal on the rent. There's an ugly ass attic thing with electricity above the wash room with a little pull-down ladder where no one would bother you. You could put some money back for a savings account while you looked for a better place that doesn't gouge your ass on the rent, and I could vouch for you so Mitch won't be constantly popping his flared nostrils in and sniffing around in your personal life. As long as the po-po doesn't find out, you can pop or smoke or shoot or whatever the fuck it is you do that he doesn't like."

"Okay, wait up a second there. You think I'm a drug addict?" He looks at me for a second before he bursts out laughing with that same laugh he does when he runs circles around a new CoD player just to watch them not shoot him down. It's the kind of laugh a predator would give before pouncing on its prey.

"I mean, it fits, doesn't it? The spaciness, the profound wisdom, the dark little hole-in-the-wall apartment down on the edge of the beautiful, hobo'd Nord. What's not to like, Rob?"

"I'm not a druggie, Mat. I'm on pills, yeah, but I get them from a doctor."

"That's classic Noochonomics, dude. Come take a trip to Dr. Nooch and we'll make things all better," he cackles as he toasts me with his glass of mystery drink.

"No, hold on. Who else thinks I'm a drug addict?"

"You know I can't tell you that. People might get _bothered_. But what do you think about my deal? Are you in or are you out?" His grin weakens to a dull smile, almost a grimace before I lean back in my chair and stretch, trying to buy myself just a few more seconds.

"I can't promise anything, but I will think it over."

"Twenty-four hours, Rob. That's all I can offer you."

"Don't do anything stupid, bro."

"I'm not trying to. I'm not going to go out and rob a bank, pardon the pun. But you know the story of the Heinz dilemma. We might have to have a modern-day enactment if someone doesn't make it rain." With that, Peeves the poltergeist is gone, along with his laughter and my peace of mind. I close Skype and log in to my bank account to stare at the numbers again, willing a zero to magically appear at the end.


	31. Chapter 31

**February 14, 2013 at 8 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"And we'll see y'all next time." Silence. Just silence.

"Uh… Are we done now? Do I cut it there?"

"Yes, you crazy bird. You cut it there. What'd you think we were gonna do? Another three videos?" Choco laughs nervously and I hear him clicking furiously on his end of the Skype call. I save the recording and drag it to the middle of the desktop on my left screen to edit and cut up into three different uploads while I eat dinner. Which should be here any time now. Or twenty minutes ago. Where the frick's the pizza guy? "So how's it feel to be a YouTuber?"

"It's uh… Pretty stressful. Half of my equipment doesn't work yet. I think it might need batteries." I facepalm and he laughs when he hears the sound of the _smack_. "When you talked me into doing this, the first thing I thought of was how everyone thought the world was going to end in 2012… I thought I was the disaster the Mayans predicted."

"The whole thing's a disaster, yeah, but it's not _that_ bad. You'll get it figured out eventually. Maybe."

"You have so much confidence in me," he chortles and I hear his phone vibrate quietly on the desk by his keyboard.

"Got a hot date there?"

"Something like that."

"Some Buffalo Wild Wings with the crazy red sauce?" He laughs and I hear the phone bump his desk as he sets it back down and goes back to clicking. Must be doing some recon for the Bacca or something, the way he's goin' at it like that. You'd think he was on eBay trying to win the first can of Fresca ever filled with all that insane clicking.

"I'd say she was more sweet than spicy. You know how I said I was going to AnimeCon a couple of weeks ago? Well…"

"Whaddaya know? The Chocobo found himself a chick for Valentine's Day. How 'bout that?" He makes that nervous laugh again and I bet his face's all kinds of fire engine red right now. Must be some girl if he's gonna spaz out this hard. "So who is she?"

"She's a really small YouTuber. She does singing, voice acting, that kind of thing. She's pretty good. A little on the cuckoo side…" He pauses for dramatic effect and I catch myself rolling my eyes even though he can't see me.

"And you say _my_ bird jokes are lame. You're gonna give me a nose bleed from all the cute. I'm gonna catch you later and go find out where my freakin' food is. Food is the real hot date right now."

"Probably a good idea. I have to call the bae back before she starts binge watching Bleach and eating chocolate without me. Ciao for now." I can't help but laugh at the idea of Choco finding someone as nerdy, quirky, and pop-obsessed as him. Imagine two Chocobos bookin' it after me on Black Ops, running support and crapping on everyone's heads for easy points. I don't think the servers could handle it. I don't the world could handle it.

I pull out my phone and check and see if the pizza delivery guy called me or something about my missing food. Nope. Nada. Nothin'. This freakin' sucks. I ordered it like an hour ago and the place's right down the street and it's still not here. Hannah isn't even home yet or she'd've texted me. Good thing I'm not into the whole Valentine's Day thing or it'd be pretty depressing, being all alone tonight. Maybe that's why my food's so late. I push back from the desk and look around at the empty walls with nails and screws sticking out every now and then. It looks so empty in here it's almost spooky, kinda like Rob's place last summer with furniture but like, nothing else. There're two gigantic piles of cardboard boxes pushed into the corners in the living room where most of my junk's ended up and there's a landfill of big black trash sacks thrown over behind the front door so I'll stop ignoring 'em and start taking 'em to the big trash cans by the covered parking. I still don't wanna do it. It's gonna take like twenty minutes. I stare at it for a couple seconds before I turn around and go back to the kitchen to start packing again. I'll deal with the trash when I'm done finding more. I wrap up all the cheap orange and red and white plates in newspapers and go back to stacking them in a new box. I'm not gonna be using anything but take-out boxes and paper plates for the next week and a half, so I might as well get this over with. I never realized how much crap I had until I had to pack it up again. It's definitely more than I moved in here with.

A lot's changed since I moved outta Mom and Dad's house. That Woofless guy I couldn't stand is one of my best friends now, I started working with the BenjandBac full-time, I picked up a Chocobo, and I finally found a girlfriend. Things are nothing like they were even just a year ago, and I bet I can say the same thing in another year with Mitch's new recording group thing he's doing. He wanted to do something kinda like Crafted with a bunch of people who record Minecraft together, except he had to have the magical number six. It's nice for teams, yeah, but how're you gonna rope six people together to be online at the same time all the time, especially when everyone's in different time zones? Him and the Bac were in it from the beginning, then they tried to give Rob a job and roped him into doing it, then he pestered me to join him until I gave in, then Mitch found Vik and eventually talked him into doing Minecraft full-time on top of his other full-time channel. And that's where the problems started. He wanted Nooch to join but it went against some weird frickin' philosophical principle of his, something about him not wanting to do YouTube for anyone but himself and how commercializing it and merching it up took all the fun out of it. But who needs him, anyways? The BenjandBac were the only ones torn up about him not wanting to join but it's fine by me. The only thing he woulda done was annoy the frick outta me and leech off my subs. Then I tried to get Choco to join but they said his channel wasn't big enough, plus the dumb bird almost had a heart attack when I brought it up to him. He said he wasn't ready and everyone else said the same thing, so he was out. Kenny doesn't play Minecraft seriously so I couldn't ask him. Jerome couldn't get the Mudflapper to switch sides and flippity flap his way in. Vik couldn't get any of his English buddies to join in and learn how to Minecraft and I coulda swore I heard JJ laughing about it all the way down here in Texas. With no one else to ask, the game was on. And it turns out I had the name on my list all along.

There was this weird, string-bean of a guy with an English accent I met back at PAX when I was using Choco as free labor. He geeked the freak out and spent five minutes redoing his hair in his phone when he got a selfie with me and Rob, and I heard he somehow geeked out even harder when he met Mitch and the Bacca. Rob got his gamer tag for CoD and the three of us wasted a bunch of hours talking about YouTube channels and games and life and epicness and it turns out he just started a more-than-PG gaming channel with Minecraft and Pokemon and crap. Turns out he was just what Mitch was looking for. And now I have half the team as allies, and Vik's just out on his own little cloud of earl grey tea smoke making bad puns and doing whatever else he does when he isn't recording videos. Mitch and Jerome can have Nooch and all the awesome sauce they want – it's gonna hurt like hell if they try to screw with me now that I'm catching up to them in subs. Even if things go bad, I can just ride it out on Mitch's hype train for a year or so and cash out and walk away twice as big as I am now. With his and Rob's crazy plans, the Bacca's bloodstained virtual axe of doom, Vik's hardcore epic try-hardness, and Lachlan's meme-worthy bantering about, looks like it's gonna be a pretty good year. Instead of having my main channel and my Minecraft channel, it might end up being my main channel and my CoD channel. Never thought I'd be saying something like that.

The doorbell rings and I almost drop the coffee mug I'm wrapping. I slide it across the counter and stumble over the minefield of boxes while I fish around in my pockets for the twenty I just put in there like an hour and a half ago. I can already taste the three meat, pineapple-y deliciousness and it's on the other side of the door.

"Fudging finally. It's like he was looking for Rob's igloo," I mutter to myself as I unfold the bill and check through the peep hole. I put on a big smile like I'm a busboy and open the door, hoping I don't look too annoyed. This guy looks like he just busted outta death row and killed the real pizza guy with just a container of marinara sauce. "How's it goin'? You can keep the change." He just looks at me and I slowly shut the door, hoping he goes away on his own. I just paid twenty bucks for one really late, really cold pizza. This sucks.

* * *

 **February 14, 2013 at 11 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

Mat is already talking and holding something up in front of the camera before I can even put my headphones on to hear what he is saying. You would think that after all of the years he has spent gaming with other people, he would know that just because Skype beeps doesn't mean that the other person has answered the call yet. I slide the headphones on and turn on the microphone, carefully releasing the puff of cigarette smoke through my nose inside of the front of my hoodie where it will get distilled and won't set off the fire alarms. There is never an hour of peace when you work with professional gamers.

"What? I couldn't hear-"

"I said, I got the letter. It was in the mail today." I have never seen a nervous Nooch before, and I hope I never have to see another one. It's like watching the court jester break down into hysterical tears; it's unnerving, almost unnatural. It seems strange to think that even the comic relief needs relief every once in a while.

"Are you going to open it?"

"No, I was just going to burn it. Of course I'm going to open it! I just want to savor the sweet taste of hope for a few more seconds." I just look at him, telling him to stop stalling and get it over with already. The letter isn't even for me and I can't stand the anticipation. There is so much riding on this one piece of paper, for me and especially for him. Either way, opening the envelope is just the beginning of an immense list of chores that we need to do. He tucks his unruly hair behind his ear for undoubtedly the hundredth time today and flexes his bony fingers like a genuine gaming aficionado. He looks up at me, down at the letter in his hands, and back up at me with a trace of his usual smirk. "All righty then. Here goes." He hastily tears the flap of the envelope off, lining up the tiny shreds of paper in front of his keyboard like a dog ripping a food wrapper apart for the sake of the thrill. He slips the paper out and lays it flat on the desk, still folded up, looking down at it with wide eyes.

"Bro. Are we going to do this sometime this year?"

"We have to do something first. Do you still have that shitty vodka that almost made Jerome yuke on the wall?" I nod and he points off screen, gesturing for me to go get it. I have work to do after this, regardless of the outcome, but I will humor him this time – I think he needs it. I jump up on my knees on the countertop in my kitchen and fish the bottle off of the top of the cabinet, not bothering to grab a glass on the way back to my office. No one else appreciates the taste of aged cheapskate like I do; no one will miss it. I skid in my chair so that I roll back in front of the computer screen and he has a miniature bottle of Fireball that he may or may not have paid for. He dramatically twists the top off and raises it like a wine glass up in the air, the bottleneck between his fingers and his head held high in a lofty pose. "I would like to make a toast tonight. One that isn't made enough. One that goes out to the people who really, seriously deserve it, and who need to finally catch a break. A toast – to the scum of the earth, to the losers, the nothings, the plebians, the proletariat! A toast, I say, to the ones they said would never go anywhere!"

"Cheers, man." I swing the bottom of the bottle toward the webcam, and he clinks his against the side of his computer monitor. We each take a drink, and when I put the bottle down, I could swear I saw the beginning of tears in Mat's eyes. This single piece of paper could make or break everything he has been working so hard to build up for the past three years. "Now, enough rambling and bullshitting. What did they say?" He puts his little bottle of whiskey down and grabs the letter, an awkward, heartfelt grin on his face. He looks like he is about to lose it.

"I don't know if I can do this."

"You already did the hard part, and the hardest part starts five minutes from now. This is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is look at it before it self-destructs."

"Let's go, boys." He unfolds the paper haltingly, squinting his eyes and scrunching his nose as if the letter is emitting a blinding light. He opens one eye, then the other, then he slowly turns his head forward and scans the letter. Nervousness melts into confusion, confusion melts into astonishment, and astonishment melts into the shittiest grin I have ever seen. He looks up at the camera, and he looks like an absolute madman. "Three, two, one. Greetings from the land of Canada. My name is Nooch, and welcome… to another season of IRL UHC. I'm in, boyos!"

"GG, man. G-fucking-G."

"Yeah! Woot!"


	32. Chapter 32

**March 2, 2013 at 9 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"Did you get your textbooks?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"What about the map? Did you print it out?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Where is your passport? Did you remember-"

"Rob."

"Did you bring it?"

"Rob. Seriously, chillax. I got everything. I'm the one flying halfway across the world for four months and you're the one freaking the hell out. Tell this guy to chill." Mat looks over at Mitch and points at me, but Mitch won't even put his cup of frozen yogurt down long enough to answer. He just looks between us with the pink plastic spoon sticking out of his mouth, waiting for us to continue talking so he can get back to chowing down.

'I'm only seven years older than them, but it feels like I am decades ahead. Why do I always have to be the adult?'

'Most people would call it being a drag. Be careful what you wish for.' I run my fingers through my too-long hair again and Mat just snorts, shaking his head as he hoists his bulging, overstuffed backpack higher on his shoulder.

"I just don't want you to call me from Shibuya, crying about how you forgot your meal voucher or some other stupid shit. Unlike some people, I'm not made of money." Mat turns to smirk at Mitch and his twelve dollar mountain of faux ice cream and sugary confections, receiving a half-hearted glare and a threat of getting a spoonful of melting, chunky, spitty chocolate goo to the face. We pass another long, silver hallway, looking for the sign to Gate A9.

'If I hadn't nagged them to get here early, he would have missed his plane. I am surrounded by absolute children.'

"Okay, wait… If that's E and we just passed C… Let's go, boyos! Onward!" Mat does an abrupt about-face and heads back between me and Mitch, quickening his leisurely pace only a bit. Even with only fifteen minutes left, he still pretends not to give a shit. Mitch just canters along, probably asking himself why he agreed to help me escort a hyperactive Nooch to his plane; I can see the regret in his tired eyes. The airport food just isn't worth it to him. We track Mat's wild, Tangela-esque hair over the top of the crowd, watching him pause to stare at the map I pointed out to him five minutes ago. Someday, someone is going to take my advice the first time and stop questioning what color my shoes were when I walked around the same block when I was their age.

"Mat, it's down there past the bathrooms. I told you to go that way after the Mitch Machine fueled up."

"What bathrooms?" I sigh and walk over next to him to look at the map, trying to hold back my frustration. I have been riding his ass for almost three weeks to get all of his paperwork finished and turned in so he could even do the study abroad program, and he can't even manage to find his way in the Montreal airport he has been in at least twenty times. What is he going to do when he touches down in Japan all by himself?

"God fucking damn it, Mat. What are you-"

"Rob, eat a fucking cookie and shut up. Please." Mitch gently slaps me on the back and shoves a squishy, Play-Doh-like cookie in my mouth. I wipe the trail of melted chocolate mystery off of the side of my mouth and resentfully mash my way through a bite of the giant soggy mess. "Thank you."

"So it's down in the dark, dank tunnel of love? Sweet." We wander our way down the long, dimly lit corridor that looks suspiciously like something from Hogwarts. Mat's unruly ponytail bobs as he walks, almost skipping his merry way down the hallway. Beyond getting the chance of a lifetime to study business in Japan for the last term of the school year, he scored a whopping scholarship package that was big enough to meet his expenses and mostly cover his ass while he was gone. They actually _paid_ him to go. He made more off of this deal than he would have if he had just stayed home and pulled videos out of his ass. I don't think the shock of it all has set in for him yet, but he deserves it. Nobody should have to work that hard for that long and get so little in return, even if the legality of half of his 'jobs' is questionable. For Mat, rules, norms, and morality mean nothing if there is no food on the table at dinnertime, and who can fault him for that? A rush of relief floods through my veins as we see him slow down in front of us and throw his arms up in the air in victory, turning to show us the skull-splitting grin on his face.

"Thank fuck," Mitch mutters into his spoon of light brown mystery milk, raising his eyebrow as Mat pulls out his phone and strolls back over to us, pulling the pair of sunglasses off of the front of his shirt and sliding them on. He darts between Mitch and me and snatches Mitch back toward him by the hem of his t-shirt when he tries to slip away. I cram the rest of the soggy peanut butter cookie in my mouth just as he takes the group selfie, knowing full well that I will regret it as soon as it goes live on Twitter.

'Who am I kidding? I have no respectability left, anyway. Darryl will get a laugh out of it, at least.' Mat pulls his sunglasses a few centimeters down his nose, looking up at the sign over the gate before he turns to look back at me, glancing Mitch's way as he walks over to throw his sugary mess away in the trash. His eyes settle back on the glowing terminal sign, a look of wonderment on his face.

"We finally made it. We made it. We're here... _One day I'll stand with a crown on my head like a god; with every step, no, I won't second-guess what I want._ " He looks sentimental, almost sad as he tucks a stray strand of wild hair behind his ear, checking around him before looking up at the illuminated 9 over our heads.

"I didn't know you were a poet. Please tell me you don't regret this."

" 'Course not. Who do you think I am? Pressy? I'm probably never going to get another chance to do something this amazing. Why would I pass up an opportunity like this? It's pure gold!" His maniacal grin softens and the Nooch Bot looks a little more like a real human. "I never said thanks. Means a whole lot to me, you helping me out with all this. I'm gonna miss your sorry, skinny ass."

"It's only four months, Mat. You won't have time to miss us. Knowing you, they'll have to tranquilize you and manhandle you on the plane to get you to come back. Just… Please don't get expelled. Or shipped back home in a body bag."

"Or tentacled." His face breaks into another wicked grin and he takes a couple of steps backward before he stops. "I'll see you on the server on Friday?"

"Absolutely. I'll see you Friday."

"Nooch, get on the fucking plane before you give this sucker a heart attack. We'll be around, don't sweat it," Mitch groans as he jabs his finger toward the steward guarding the entrance to the plane terminal. Mat nods solemnly for a few seconds before he makes a mad dash toward me and nearly tackles me to the ground in a surprising moment of genuine affection. I expect him to start breaking down, but he jerks himself away and darts over to the doorway leading to the loading platform.

" _Au revoir, mon salope!_ " he yells, to the chagrin of an older couple walking past me and to the glee of the snickering Mitch. We watch him disappear into the winding tunnel, waving sarcastically without turning to look back at us. I get the feeling that his eyes are more than a little glassy right now.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." We stand in silence, watching the behemoth of a plane slowly roll away from the retracting loading dock, and it swings around and heads toward the runway. There is no doubt in my mind that he will have plenty of stories to tell us over Skype, but life will never be the same for him after something as extraordinary as this.

'This changes everything, doesn't it?'

* * *

 **March 7, 2013 at 3 PM, Sumas, Washington: Preston**

"And you make sure you call us tomorrow when you get all settled in. You hear me?" Dad's doing his famous Dad Squint and I fight the eyeroll with every last cell in my body. He really thinks I can't take care of myself, huh? This's like the fifteenth time we've had this conversation just since we hit the city limits. And that's not counting the twenty-hour drive to get here.

"I already promised Mom I'd call you guys. I got it."

"Get it, got it, good."

"You sure you don't want me to go with you? I could keep ya company at the airport while you wait."

"Nah, I'll be fine. No point in you havin' to pay for a cab to come all the way back up here. Why in the world you had to move _here_ of all places… Don't even have an airport here. Or a KFC."

"It's not that far to drive back to the city."

"Keep tellin' yourself that. You're gonna die from boredom in a week up here by yourself, and that's when there's no ice and snow on the roads."

"I'm not by myself! My friends live like, maybe half an hour away? At most? I'm not gonna get bored enough to die."

"Bet me, kid. No, no need to name the bet now. You can just pay me in Chick and Filets when we drive you back home." This guy, though. The facepalm is so strong but I don't want him to flick me in the forehead like he did when I was a kid.

"First of all, I'm gonna be fine and I'm not comin' home anytime soon. Second thing… it's called 'Chick-Fil-A.' Not 'Chick and Filets.' "

"Now don't go being a smart-alec. Go get started treasure huntin' in there before it all caves in on you and I miss my plane tryin' to dig you out."

"F-ine. Thanks again for helping me move. I owe ya one. Or ten. Or something."

"You don't owe me anything. That's what I'm here for."

"Love you, Dad."

"I love you, too, son. Now get goin' before your mom starts sending you real estate listings again." He steps out on the landing in front of my new apartment and waves in a slow, dramatic, and kinda sad way. It's like he doesn't wanna leave. Why's he gotta make this so much harder than it needs to be?

"Have a safe flight. And don't jump outta the plane this time! You're retired!" He guffaws and looks back at me one last time before he climbs back down the stairs and heads to the cab waiting for him down at the curb. I stand there for a little while after he's gone and I don't know what I'm waiting for but it just feels right. I slowly go back inside and lock the door behind me, leaning against it so my head and back are pressed against the smooth, white wood.

It's so quiet here. There's no Sasquatch living above me now who's gonna start stompin' around at four in the morning when I finally go to sleep. And there's no old lady with a yippy chihuahua next door to grate like cheddar on my nerves, just the building's air conditioners and the parking lot. And it's a lot nicer in here than my first apartment was and it's bigger and cleaner-looking. But that might just be because I haven't unpacked anything but a case of sugar-free Red Bulls. Everything else is still stacked up in the mountains of boxes and black trash sacks in the hallway and the bedrooms. I turn my head just enough to peer down the dark hall at the soon-to-be cardboard avalanche of doom, hoping against all odds I can see my computer boxes from here so I can dig 'em out, unpack 'em, and get the Wi-Fi set up, at least. It'd be nice to Spotify this ish and make it less sad and gloomy and scary quiet in here.

I'm not lonely. I'm just not used to this level of peace and quiet and solitude yet. I'll get used to it. It'll be great. No one around to drop in without calling, no one around to nag me to the grave about laundry or groceries or bringing dinner over on Sunday, no one around to beg me to drive 'em around to all five corners of existence because they can't drive. I'm un-united and it feels so good!

"You finally made it, Preston. You're finally here. You did it. It's done. And now you get to see Hannah whenever you want. She's just a trip to the gas station and forty-five minutes away. That's it. This's what you've been waiting for."

Then why does it feel so cold and empty?


	33. Chapter 33

**March 11, 2013 at 5 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

I take one last look before I slide the plain black and white Picasso duplicate into a small garbage bag to protect it from getting shifted around in the truck, and I place it on top of the precarious tower of boxes next to the front door. The movers will be here in three hours to start loading up all of my crap and make the twenty minute trip to the next in my neverending chain of apartments, this one a little farther from the downtown area and the growing horde of homeless people who live down in the drainage ditch. I used to have a theory about them when I was a kid, and even thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine. Is there really an underground city of beggars living in the sewer system, like old and failed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or was that just something that Dad encouraged me to think to keep me from wandering too close to the grey, rushing flood water from the snow melt? If only I was as brave as Mat, I would already know the answer.

'You said you didn't want to think about Mat anymore.' A twinge of anxiety flashes in the pit of my stomach and I decide that working on my next disaster is the best way to keep my mind from drifting back to him and his perilous travels. I can't always be there to babysit him. That isn't my job.

I meander my way back into my office and begin unplugging the intricate web of cables from my desktop computer, cringing when I see the sandy mounds of crumbs that have accumulated under my keyboard. I think I just found out why my W key was sticking this morning. I turn the poor thing upside down and tap it, watching in horror as a thin veil of food particles, skin cells, curly hair, and a single fingernail tumble out from between the badly worn keys. Per usual, I have no one to blame for this but myself, and I hastily stuff the filthy thing against the side of a new box to hopefully keep it from spreading its grime on anything else. I fill the rest of the box with the odds and ends from the two desk drawers and the shelves on either side of the monitors, my eyes catching on the empty shell of my now dead first laptop.

"This is the end of the line for you. You fought honorably, old friend. Jerome can put you out of your misery the next time he flies up to see Mitch." The thought of relatively fresh computer parts will be enough to make the Bacca drool all down the front of his days-old, chicken-scented t-shirt. I gently wipe the fresh layer of dust off of the navy blue computer before I slide it on top of the collection of crap in the box and fold the flaps of the box over each other to keep it sealed during the move; this is what happens when you are too cheap to buy packing tape. I wrap the computer monitors in clean bath towels before putting them together in a box of their own, their simple togetherness making me long for something I know I can't have. At least, not yet. My plans get me into enough trouble as it is - I don't need to be dragging anyone else into this mess right now. That might be something I can think about in two or three weeks, if my good luck streak of decent moods and livable sleep schedules keeps it up.

When I move these next two boxes out to the living room, my eyes go back to the Picasso replica and settle there. Jerome had bought it for me as a joke right after we first met, his way of taking a jab at my stubbornness and my daily pill cocktail without getting his parents and Mitch on his case. At first I didn't understand why Jerome had drawn me a picture (or what it was supposed to be a picture of), but it has become a pretty common metaphor for my nutiness. He calls me 'The Knight of the Woeful Countenance,' I call him my less-than-noble steed, and he still insists on calling Preston my Dulcinea. I'm used to being called crazy; it's just a part of who I am now. However, the Princess Preston joke is quickly wearing out.

'I wonder how his life is with Hannah.' I even think it more bitterly than I want to. He hates it in Washington - I can hear it in his voice every time he calls. And he calls _a lot_ these days, more than he could possibly expect one person to be able to answer. Ironically, now I have more of a life than Preston does and I have a sneaking suspicion that he might be doping up on sleeping pills and antidepressants soon, too. He sits at home, trolling around online, gaming, and watching TV all day, every day with no friends, no family, and no girlfriend in sight. He said she was driving down to see him this weekend and they were going to go on some boat tour along the coastline for the afternoon, and the thought of wired, impatient Preston getting so excited about a lame ass boat ride is pitiful and a little bit concerning. That level of suspense should be reserved for hype video game releases and excursions to Five Guys five minutes before they close for the night. He was even interested in me deciding to move away from the fringes and toward the suburbs, and we spent an absurd amount of time talking on Skype while I packed and he unpacked. No offense to him but I might say that I had issues getting my internet set up at my new place just so I can take a day off from trying to entertain him and distract him from his unsatisfying life decisions. I'm not going to be _his_ babysitter anymore, either, and he can eat the crock of shit he has made himself; I don't need to take a taste to know it's awful. Maybe if he climbs in and boils with it for a while, he might grow up a bit and start considering how his choices can screw him over in the long term.

I head back into the office and stack the computer tower and the last box of game cases on my desk chair and take my time rolling it out to the living room, adding the tower to the pile of things that are coming with me in my car to the new apartment. Now all I have to deal with is the bathroom, and Notch knows how much fun that is going to be, with all of the great memories and temptations. We saved the best for last, ladies and gentlemen. I grab the shoebox off of the top of the stack labelled 'bedroom' and go to add the rest of my socially-undesirable supplies to it, alongside my set of good scalpels, an extra bottle of antidepressants, half of a carton of cheap cigarettes, a miniature bottle of overpriced rum, and an expired baggie of marijuana Mat gave me a year ago that I never used and should probably throw away. Soon, five bottles of pills, two rolls of gauze, a dozen replacement razor blades, a large bottle of antiseptic, and a box of paper stitches have been added to the array of miniature torture devices and I am stacking the remaining bottles and boxes up on the countertop to make the rest of the nightmare just a bit easier to deal with. I just want to grab a box and swipe it all in and be done with it. I should have been done yesterday afternoon and my patience is completely gone. I don't even want to think about unboxing all of this shit again and trying to find a new place for it, and a new place for me.

'Hopefully I can stay there for a while before I migrate again. Soon I'll be living on Mitch's actual doorstep.' I head out to the living room and grab one last box, carefully setting the shoebox inside of it before I return to the porcelain prison to stack the rest of the chemical crap in it. Mitch wasn't entirely thrilled with the idea of me wasting three hundred of my scarce dollars on this move, but he wasn't too displeased, either. He and I had volunteered to help Mat keep an eye on his mom and younger sister while he was abroad, and me moving closer to both of their houses made Mitch's job incrementally easier - I am now only a twenty-five minute drive away instead of forty-five. Even though it will make his unannounced pit stops at my place more frequent and more obnoxious, I couldn't stand to stay here after I had considered leaving. It's just too dark, too cold, too guilt-ridden. I need to escape.

I think it's finally time to move on and find somewhere with a little more light, a little more color, and a little less poverty and guilt. I don't want to have six pairs of accusing eyes trained on me whenever I drive across the bridge outside the gate to my apartment complex. I don't want the old couple down the hall to stop and stare at me with sympathy written on their greying faces as they whisper about me in French, thinking I can't understand them. I don't want to watch the moms and their kids cross over to the other sidewalk to distance themselves from me when they see me smoking on my balcony. I am tired of living in la mancha and sword fighting with windmills and shadows when the sun goes down, and I need to find something else to do with my time other than listen to Preston rattle on and on about his one true love.

It obviously isn't me.

* * *

 **March 12, 2013 at 7 PM, Sumas, Washington: Preston**

I yank back on my nunchuks and snap the lizard dude's neck right in half like it's a Starbucks straw and watch him flop on the ground like a limp biscuit in a puddle of blood gravy. He's dead. Again. But he always comes back at the push of a button.

The NPC villains on this ancient Mortal Kombat game aren't even remotely a challenge and I can't believe I ever wasted twenty bucks on this crap. But I don't know what else to do. I'm sick of COD because I've played it into the ground like a groundhog and it's all noobs on on Friday night, plus Ghosts sucks bowling balls, anyways. And I'm not gonna run out and buy another new game that I'll beat in like, half a day and wish I hadn't bought. GameStop's gonna make a killing off me living here 'cause I'm gonna blow through my grocery money trying to find a way not to go full psycho and kill someone like Creepy McCreeperson up here in this empty, foggy butthole of a city. I already know how I'd get rid of the body thanks to video games and anime and watching CSI with Mom. Is that bad? Is that something I should be thinking about? Maybe I should stop thinking about that.

Two more days and Hannah's gonna be here. Then it'll all be worth it. Not that I'm gonna kill her or anything crazy like that but I wouldn't mind kidnapping her and forcing her to stay with me for a couple days. Her parents already hate my guts, though, and her dad'd probably cut through my door and my neck with a chainsaw and post it all on my YouTube channels for the world to see. I wish there was a legit way to get her to stick around for a day or two and keep me company. I just don't see it happening. And spending a month or two or three in a jail cell isn't my idea of a good time and I think I'd be even more bored in there than I am here.

At least here I can get out and walk around and hitch a cab over to the car lot to see if they got anything nice in yet. I still don't have a car and I'm really starting to miss my old Mustang and I wish I coulda kept it. Mom keeps trying to get me to buy an ugly freakin' silver Prius by saying how much money I'd save in gas and with the green tax voucher thing and how they're supposed to do good in the snow. Have you ever seen a frickin' Prius? It's like three and a half inches off the ground. A single snowflake'd get it stuck like you just drove it through Laffy Taffy. I ain't buyin' a freaking Prius. Nope. No way. At least my Mustang woulda got stuck in the snow in style and people wouldn't think I'm always on my way to pick up my kids at a soccer game. It's like a little wind-up minivan from hell and I ain't interested. I'd rather buy a couple dogs and a sled and have them pull me around town to buy groceries and stuff.

Speaking of dogs, I drag myself up off my spot on the big comfy couch and run at my computer chair to send it spinning across the room back to my computer desk. I unminimize Skype to see if Rob or anyone else has logged on for the night. Maybe someone'll want to record or just waste some time on DOTA or GTA or Battlefield. I'd even play Ghosts even though I hate its guts more than I thought I'd ever hate a COD game.

Nope.

Nobody at all.

At this rate I'm gonna be downloading League of Legends and playing it like a frickin' fiend and losing the little tiny scrap of not-loserness I've stored up over the years. There's nothing to _do_ here and no one to do it with. Even Rob's dark, freezing, packed-up igloo apartment is more entertaining than this! I think about joining a Minecraft server for a couple rounds of Hunger Games or UHC or just turning my computer off and going to bed early when the clock hits eight on the dot and Choco logs his cheerful, feathery butt online to start his creeper rounds on everyone's accounts. I double-click that bird so quick you'd think he was a Zapdos.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He sounds freaked out. Like suspiciously freaked out. Like I'd just walked in on him watching porn or making an IED. There's a few seconds of silence and he's got me curious now. What's this dirty birdie up to?

"Doesn't sound like you're doin' nothing. What were you getting into, Choco? Come on, cough it up." There's the nervous laughter we know and love. This guy's the worst poker player ever to poke around.

"I was just… Did you see the tweet chain on your account?" Dangit. I was hoping I could forget about that.

"Yeah, the aliens two suns over saw it. I'm sick of that crap."

"I mean… It could have been worse. Not much worse, but still worse. I was just reading through that when you called and I-I can't unread it," he laughs awkwardly as the words 'summer,' 'silk sheets,' and 'corn dog' flash through my head. I went down by the grocery store to get something to eat and the only not weird place sold hot dogs and chili dogs on a stick and I was dumb enough to take a picture of it and put it on Instagram. And now they're writing fan fiction about sweaty, blue silk sheets and corn dogs and all the horrible things that come with those two things. Who comes up with this crap?! Who would think of doing that with a corn dog?! "You know, Preston, if you let them know that that bothers you they're going to keep posting things like that. You have to laugh it off like Rob did."

"Rob laughs off corn dogs and dildo monsters and freakin' meteor showers. I bet he could laugh handcuffs right off, too. Some people just aren't interested in being corn dog suckers." Choco makes a little spluttering sound as he tries not to start giggling and I wish I could reach across the state of Oregon and slap this motherfudger. "What's so funny, Mr. Chicken McNugget? You got your Hot 'n Spicy Honey Mustard and Rob's got his corny corn dogs just like his corny frickin' jokes. What am I supposed to have?" He lowers his voice and starts talking all prim and proper, like he's Vik's butler or something.

"At the risk of having my arm torn completely off of my body during the next convention, I - uh… I'd like to point out the handful of banana smashing videos you've made. That… Unbelievably, that is now a ship." When I don't say anything and I just put my head down on my desk in quiet defeat, he whispers, "Prestonana" and I really do wanna rip his arm off.

"Dangit, Choco. You weren't supposed to answer that."

"Oh. So it was supposed to be rhetorical?" I sigh and he laughs lightly at my pain.

"Are you callin' me dumb, too? Did you think I wanted to hear about what people think I like shoving down my throat?" He chuckles nervously again but I don't even care. I'm not even that mad anymore. I'm over it. Being ticked off doesn't do any good and they just keep making this crap, anyways. I can't stay mad or else I'd just explode. I wish I didn't hafta see this ish all over the internet and I really hope my family doesn't find it. Something tells me they already have. And that's scary as frick.

"I mean… It doesn't all go like that. There was one where Rob mashed it up and fed it-"

"Choco. Stop trying to be helpful. You're givin' me more dain bramage here. I don't need to think about these things when I'm trying to fall asleep at night." Crap. "That didn't come out right. Just stop… stop reading that crap, dude. It's gonna kill you some day. Look what happened to me - and I didn't read that much."

"You _do_ realize that it can only get worse from here, right? You're an internet celebrity and according to the rules of the internet… You know how that goes. 'If it exists online, there's porn of it.' And you're stuck pretty deep in the online machine."

"Not. Helping." He goes back to clicking like he's Edward Scissorhands in a sheep shearing factory and I just let him do his thing for a few minutes while I look back on how sucky this whole thing's turned out. It's gotta get better after Hannah graduates in June, right? When I can see her more often and we can go places and do things and make vlogs and maybe record some games together? When people know she's real and they see how much I love her and how I don't love Rob like that? It's gotta work, right? Thinking about it just bums me out even more and makes it seem like time is going even slower than before. I hear his chair creak as he gets up and I wait for him to come back from whatever he's doing with another creak. "You wanna play something? Anything?"

"Sure. We could do… Ghosts?" Dad gommit, you bird brain. I just sigh and find myself nodding even though he can't see me. I hate this freaking game. I wish I could sell it back and buy something less awful from GameStop. But you can't sell a download.

"Yeah, sure. Just gimme a sec to get it loaded up. You up for elimination?" He pops open a fresh can of Fresca and I know this's gonna be a long, long night.

* * *

 **March 12, 2013 at 3 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

The ringing is so loud that I jolt straight up out of bed and catch myself looking around for a weapon. I take a deep breath to try to slow my breathing down and I put my face in my hands in humiliation. Even though there was no one else around to see it, getting scared half to death by the doorbell is never flattering. I grab my phone off of the nightstand and check the time on it as I walk to the front door, awkwardly trying to maneuver my way through the unfamiliar hallway and around the mounds of packed and unpacked boxes while I look down at my screen and the rows of notifications waiting for me. I was only asleep for five hours, and look at all of this shit. The bell rings again and I slide the phone in the pocket of my pajama pants and run my fingers through my hair. The bell rings again when I'm only half a meter away.

"God damn it. That better not be you, Mitch." I lean down and look out the peephole, my mind trying to fight its way through the haze of sleeping pills as I recognize the guy's mail uniform and try to figure out who might have sent me a package. Then I start to wonder if I should open the package at all. I pull the door open just as he marks something on his clipboard and gets ready to walk away. "Hi, sorry. I didn't hear you the first time."

"All is good. Mister… Las-kee. La-skee?"

"Yeah, that's me. Do I have to sign?" He looks at me blankly as he tries to process what I said. It looks like I am going to be excusing my rusty French quite a bit on this side of the city. " _Signe_?"

"Oh, yes. Yes." He hands me the clipboard with a small box perched on top, and I scrawl something that very vaguely looks like an R and an L and hand it back, carefully examining the tiny brown and black box as I thank the delivery guy and shut the door. I double-check to make sure that the door is locked before I head over to the kitchen to debate about what to do with this. The sender is 'HashTag International,' and I don't think I have ever seen a more ambiguous (or suspicious) company name. Could this legitimately be something that someone I know sent me, or could it be one of those mail-order mini-bombs that someone sent to Mitch last summer? Does someone already know my new mailing address?

This is the awful part about having to live in an actual, physical place. When you have a YouTube channel, a huge number of people know your name and can pick you out of a crowd, which means that there is a good chance that at least one of my new neighbors knows who I am and where I live now. This can lead to them blackmailing you like they try to do with Mitch and Jerome, or flat out pestering you into oblivious for free merch, selfies, and autographs like they do with Vik. In a few very rare cases, this can lead to them completely flipping their shit and trying to break into your home or car to steal things from you, or to try to murder you in your sleep. Now I might have to face up to the fact that a few million people can recognize my face and my name, a problem that goes way, way beyond just the people who subscribe to my channel. I still get e-mailed death threats from people who used to be fans of my old channel with Mike and who blame me for all of the shit that went down with the embezzlement and the police, so at least they would have a few suspects if this box blows up on my kitchen counter.

The real question is: do I risk it for the biscuit and open it?

I grab a steak knife from the silverware drawer and set it down next to the box, pulling out my phone to try to do some research on this company I had never heard of before. If I can find out who they are and what they sell, I can be relatively sure that it isn't a bomb or a dead animal full of anthrax. The top ten seach results show that HashTag sells… drug paraphernalia. Hookahs, non-prescription needles, crack heaters made to look like electric wax burners, chemical cocktails for some of the sketchier injections, scales to weigh bags of weed and cocaine, everything you can think of. And my mind immediately flashes back to Mat and his druggie comment a few weeks ago. Does this mean that he actually thinks that I am a drug addict?

I slide the tip of the knife through the label and the tape holding the box shut, and I subconsciously brace myself when I pull one of the flaps halfway open. I peer in and I see another box, this one smaller and slightly glossier. I pull it out and see that there is another box below it made out of plain cardboard. I carefully open the fancy, shiny box and inside it there is a long, silvery grey metal tube that looks like a tiny flute with a small bottle of clear fluid, all of it lined in black velvet. Whatever this is, it must have cost an arm and a leg. I open the bottom box and there are more of the bottles of liquid in a variety of colors. I look through the box again, trying to figure out what it is and who would send me something like this. I finally find a business card inside the front lid of the velvet-lined box with a note on it, but I don't know whether I should feel surprised, grateful, or annoyed by his nosiness:

'So your new apartment doesn't smell like a chemical fire. Congrats on the beautiful view. From Dar'

I glance out the glass patio doors to the plain cement wall right outside my balcony that I had posted a picture of on Instagram yesterday and I smile, putting the box down so I can send him the selfie he really deserves. I put my head back and slide the tip of the e-cigarette up my nose, making my best Jerome-esque face for the camera before I text it to him to enjoy.

'How does one work this, brother?' Within a minute he writes back.

'Oh god. I hope you're happy with your new contact photo.'


	34. Time to Move On - The Last Note

For those poor souls who follow this story, I have some good news and some bad news.

The bad news is that I will no longer be posting on this site - it took me fifteen minutes to even post this message because my new computer is not compatible with this site. And it's just not worth the trouble.

The good news is that I am still continuing VL and have at least one newer chapter, another massive novella, and more crack fics posted on Wattpad under the same username. Their website is more Mac-friendly and less stringent on content and language. It is also more interactive and better formatted.

Feel free to join us! May the crack addicts unite!


End file.
